Popsicles

On my way back from the psychiatrist I took the usual route from I-95 to Sr 520. At the turnoff a semi had been overturned and the twisted remains of the trailer rig still lay along the road. The cargo had been the liquid popsicles that could be popped in the freezer and ready in an hour. There must have been millions of them in their multitude of colors. Two Bobcat light bulldozers were busy pushing piles of them off the road and into the median. The road was smeared with hundreds of them in a dozen different hues. The air was sweet with the sugary liquid as cars rolled over them. An ambulance was present, busy taking away the driver, who, with a glazed look on his face, kept repeating as he was strapped to a gurney “, the colors… The colors!!”