An Unconsolable Curiosity Poem by Smoky Hoss

It's been nearly 30 years back
on some long forgotten and forlorn
New Mexico two lane blacktop;
I can still see
the violent dust rolling and rising,
the tractor trailer laying
on it's crippled side
badly smashed, like a cockroach
that had been
half stepped on, on
the drivers side.
I will never know
what was the cause,
speed, sleep deprivation, booze, poor judgement,
but, I cannot unknow
that drop in the gut feeling
of desolate despair,
a sense of lonely loss, of
something terribly unchangeable,
unfixable.
I wonder if the driver
right then and there,
where I was looking,
was already gone.
How many miles
did he need to drive to come
this way home?
How many must,
any of us as needs be,
drive to arrive?