Leftovers

with the window open, I hear a squealing
it might be a distant car crash, or not.
might just be the squealing of ambitious
tires on the shiny slick parking structure
surface. on weekend nights, the huge machine
goes around and around, sanitizing that. I
used to program for long hours and every
sunday night I would hear that sweeper thing
swish around in circles, like an old friend.
ah, must be sunday, I would think, happy to
be gainfully occupied programming. periodically,
people lose control of their vehicles. there are
many intersections within listening distance,
and sometimes spectacular things happen there.
one time a woman sat slumped on a grassy berm,
with her head in her hands, while paramedics
loaded a lady into their van, her smashed styrofoam
lunch leftovers forgotten in the street. I wanted
to comfort that woman, but she was not my woman,
but she was that man's woman, who arrived in his
car and gingerly put his arm around her and
spoke to her. not the one in the van, I don't
know what happened to her, but I am certain
she was alive when they drove away. but her
lunch leftovers were a total loss, and she
would not be eating them later after the workday
was done.