After I ran over the guy
I felt bad. I had never seen
him before, certainly not
when I was reversing from
that parking spot. He was
60 or so and handsome in
a hard way. His cap had
fallen from his head. Now it
was crumpled there in
a puddle

I stood nearby with my hands
on my knees, saying things like
“Oh no, oh no,” and “gee Mister
I’m awfully sorry, can you walk?”
His mouth stretched to its corners
His yellow eyes looked and looked
past my face. I remembered Chris Rock
at the forum saying no one hates me
more than an old black man
Damn, maybe I had seen him. Or–

to be honest there was no accident
This is a bald poem, inspired
by a flashing darkness in my
rearview at the McDonald’s
There is nothing to it. My white friend
Dave once told me that luck is
just a high degree of perceptivity
I think about all those sad dads
running over the family dog
in the family driveway

Adam Robinson lives in Baltimore, where he runs Publishing Genius. He is the author of two books of poetry and a new chapbook called “Racish Poems.” He plays guitar in a rock band called Coach Taylor.