A Car-crash. 

 A startling concussion of lights and low voices.
Blue-flash on networks of trickling red.
An ambulance looms like a submarine crisis;
a stasis of tension and cool tingling dread.

 Was it the heat, or was it the booze,
and who was it shot the red light?
Had anyone thought of how much they could lose?
There was murmured debate in the night.

 The shoals of spectators were eddying, restless.
A taxi disgorged it's lone driver.
A girl in the other car woke from the dreamless,
exploring the wreck like a diver.

 The police were efficient; they usually are,
but closer looks showed they were shocked.
Their adrenalin pumped at a front-crumpled car
which juddered along as it rocked.

 The taxi man was safe, which wasn't strange,
yet I always thought a crash-free ride was well within their range.
The other people left their car with dazed but steady care,
and they lacked the stricken boozers glassy stare.

 I seriously thought about why I still waited,
although it had happened just yards from my flat.
As idle spectators are easily hated,
I wanted to learn, and do something with that.

 I jumped from the wall, felt heat on my soles
as I crossed the street, avoiding the glass.
Three young policemen, in different roles
from the usual, answered me, friendly, when I asked.

 They told me it was probably heat-strain,
but I learned I'd made a thousand thoughts to shut off any grief,
and that it hurt so much to see and want to understand the pain;
and I knew I'd write this mainly for relief.