Construction Zone

Not Dead

At the lumberyard you pull a board

from a high rack, badly stacked.

With a roar, sixteen four-by-fours

clatter from above

onto your skull.

Stars flash.

In your mouth you taste blood.

Internal bleeding, a flood.

You have a cerebral hemorrhage.

At least

you are still thinking. You can

formulate the words "cerebral hemorrhage"

though you couldn’t spell them right now.

You look around the lumberyard where two guys

in T shirts are going about their business

not noticing your moment of dying.

You could call out but something tells you

not to make a fool of yourself.

At least

you can see again, eyes cleared by

involuntary liquids. Not tears.

You do not cry.

Your tongue hurts, bitten.

Your ears ring, a distant gong.

The taste of blood is fading.

Your brain aches. Rattled. Not broken.

Two lumps on the cranium. Tender.

"Need a hand with that, bud?" says a voice.

"Yes, thanks."

"Took a bump there, didn't you?"

"I'll survive."

Together, you load the truck.