Thirteen

The 13th cyclist killed
in year two-oh-eleven.
Tenth month, third day -
the day we met.

A cup of coffee, spilled
a little,
what a little
accident.

Did she have her morning
coffee like we did?
(Mine went down
my sleeve.)

Was she meant to be
a warning?
A sign that
I should leave?

Wind got tangled in my curls,
heels were high,
skirt was
revealing…

Only dead girls
can approach
the secret craft
of leaving.