402. Poem "Tipped Over Winnetka"

My green car tipped over Wittetka
and I looked to the fire-coated mountains
of southern California
in comfort with Fiona Apple,
"If you don't have a song to sing,
you're okay,
you know how to get along humming..."
And instead I shattered tears,
face red.
The bell was rung.
There was no going back.
I realized I lost my grandfather.