to be making a left turn into the parking lot

of the post office—circa 1962, boxy steel

and glass—in a small New Jersey suburb,

but that’s what happened, I swear,

that day in March when I walked

from my house on the corner

to mail my father’s birthday card,

stepping off the curb just as a Range Rover –

shiny and black as Darth Vader’s helmet

like a rolling symbol of villainy –

careened across the oncoming lane

where the speed limit is a slow fifteen

and nearly flattened me before I jumped back.

Looking up, I locked eyes with the driver,

with those pale blue eyes empty of humanity

and frosty, and saw that it was, I swear,

the Prime Minister and former President

of Russia itself, that great frozen land

of bread lines, sable hats, and nesting dolls;

Vladimir Putin, that cold-hearted bastard,

Hell-bound to get the last open parking spot

and beat me to the blue USPS box

for out-of-town mail, and without regret.