I walk into the public restroom
that is covered in wallpaper full
of abstract swirls like the canvases  
of Lee Krasner and Helen Frankenthaler. 
I slide past the infrastructure of doors
and hinges, latches that glitch a little
and often never quite align. And once
I choose my stall and walk inside 
I see a small brilliant red dot 
of blood on the toilet seat. 
A pomegranate seed. A broken 
piece of coral. A tiny slice 
of chili pepper. A dead lady 
bug. A splash of cabernet. 
It of course is none of these. 
The breeze from the hand-dryer 
somehow trains up under the stall. 
It is hot and now this modest space
is even hotter. There is no remedy 
for what happens next. I ping back
to myself, a younger woman. How often I prayed
for blood. How I charted the empire 
of endometrium and eggs. How I knew
that trees assembled their shadows 
just so. And how now I am on the other side
of all such worries. She must have left
in such a hurry. Not to notice 
the ruby dropped in such a public spot. 
I feel close to her, like I know her. 
I shared her fears, maybe her dreams. 
I back out of the stall, never using it.
An automatic sink clicks on
with no one in front of it. 

Maybe it ruins the story to say at the start that no one was hurt
the day Scotty Forester swung open the door of the family car,
climbed up, put one hand on the wheel and, then, while pushing
and pulling on buttons and knobs, he found and released 

the brake, and it started, the silver-blue Mercury, to roll 
down Robin Street, best street in the neighborhood for sledding, 
for coasting on a bike with arms waving above your head, 
Scotty gaining speed on the long sweep of that block, heading 

toward the intersection, then into it, then speeding 
through, the car beginning to slow as the street leveled out,  
although, toward the end, Scotty going fast enough 
to jump the curb before stopping, three feet from a gas pump. 

Maybe knowing the ending ruins this story, but sometimes 
we need a break from dread. We need to know that the car 
did not crash, the child did not die. We need to briefly forget 
that we live in a world where a car is gaining speed, and 

no one seems to be at the wheel. We need to be more 
like the dog Scotty drives past, who barks, and runs in circles 
as he barks some more, driven by some circuitry we have lost 
for loving this dangerous life, living it.