I Don't Paint Myself Into Corners

I don’t paint myself into corners anymore
In a brittle heart of clay
I threw my brushes away
The tools of the trade that chained your memory to me
Are out the door
I don’t paint myself into corners anymore

When I was 13 I was hit by a truck.

My aunt, who was taking a break from her marriage, on our living room sofa sent me and my older brother to get some chicken. Back then, there was not a chicken or burger place on every corner, we had to take two busses, to get this chicken. Since we were trekking to the chicken place, we asked if she’d buy us burgers, the burger place was next door to the chicken place. She agreed.

The trip to the chicken and burger places was uneventful. We get the chicken. We get the burgers. We head back towards home. We’re on the first of two busses to get home. My brother, who is carrying the burger sack, exits the bus on the west side of the street. This was not a stop. The bus was stopped for the light. I waited on the bus until the light changed and the bus stopped at the sign, on the east side of the street.

The second bus we needed to get home was coming. My brother yelled for me to run. The light was still green, so I took off, running across the street. I’d barely gotten off the curb when I went flying. My glasses went left. The chicken sack I was holding went right. I bounced a couple of times before I came in contact with the curb. The guy driving the truck, I was told, had been drinking.

My brand new coat was getting soaked and soiled. That was the only thought on my mind. I really liked that coat. It was the first new non hand-me-down coat I’d gotten in a long time. I really hated lying there on the ground waiting for the ambulance, my brother yelling for me to stay down. The milling spectators all had opinions as to what happened. Some absconded with the chicken from the sack. One was kind enough to retrieve my crumpled glasses and hand them to my brother.

Emergency vehicles arrived, I was taken to the hospital. I spent much of the next several weeks getting treatments for a sore back. Some months later I got new clothes, including a new coat and we ate better for a time. My aunt eventually left our sofa and went back to her marriage. She was a little bummed that I’d lost the chicken.

Whenever I hear, "I Don’t Paint Myself Into Corners" I always think about the year I got hit by a truck, running to catch a bus, substituting my own lyric, I Don’t Run for Busses, Anymore.

I miss many busses.