Monday, March 6, 2017

Lisa Olsson


There was no lightning strike
or embolism to curse for that night,

3 AM, January 2, 2017,
Isaac so drunk he couldn't talk.

Harry threw him in the Jeep
to get him home. Close like brothers,

but not brothers, since Little League,
both on my son's team.

Harry drove drunk—off-duty
cops don't get busted.

In the empty town he hit a tree,
called out to black windows.

Cut out of the Jeep, Isaac died
on the way, and Harry lives.

Lisa reads "Twenty-seven":

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Lisa confesses: "I wish all who read this poem commit to never driving while drunk or impaired."

LISA OLSSON is a poet, musician, artist living in a small town near New York City. Formerly an Art Director, she is now a Cello teacher, and most recently, a political activist.

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