Off exit 62, west-bound, there is
a groundhog hiding in the shoulder.
He is waiting (his brown fur
glistens and mimics the motion
of the grass) for you

to ease around the familiar bend.
When it is almost too late,
he will come bounding out,
and leap in front of your wheels
his arms spread wide, the soft
webbing of his armpits like wings.

And after you swerve your car
wildly from the flow of the day, slamming
it into the lamp post, he will have given you
time to think.

About what makes a groundhog
do a thing like that, and where exactly
it was you thought you were going.
Then, driven out of the car by the hiss
and steam of the broken radiator,
you hunker down into the grass,
a little blaze of lunacy,
and wait for me to come.