B. D. Love ACCIDENT for Richard a once and future homeless man A witness said you spiralled off the truck, shot twenty feet into the air, then landed, hard, on the curb. Your stupid homeless luck, your life one accident a second ended. As good as dead–the paramedics words delivered in knowing tones. As good as dead. Yet you survived, a ghost lassoed by yards of tubes and wires spun from your broken head. How good is dead, my friend? You stumble, bent, along the street, your tongue a knot of slurs. You scare some older folks incontinent. The rest of us just look for signs, and years go by without us learning what you mean. God slumps behind the wheel. His light turns green.