Witnessing the road accident

Rusholme,
Outside ‘Southern Fried Chicken’ with the sour smell of vagrant’s sweat in my nostrils.
I’m involved in the slow wait at the bus stop.
We fidget our feet and stamp them in the cold Saturday autumn afternoon.
The girl walks towards us, other side of the street.
She has blonde hair, tied back with a pink checked headband
and it is heavy, curled by last night’s plait.
She is wearing a pale blue jumper, with a long, warm grey coat
over a calf length, black skirt, which is slightly twisted
and torn at the back, one sock is forever lowering itself
and she keeps on bending down to pull it up
against her pale, cold, bone legs.
She is wearing sensible brown school shoes
and could be on her way home from somewhere.
She is carrying a small rucksack and she is stepping
out into the road.
For a single, slow second we turn:
we pause.
We watch
her footsteps
into the road
and then the slow motion picture speeds into;
broken glass,
screeching breaks,
screaming
and the thud of a body.
As she falls, one shoe is dislodged and begins a slow arc across the roadway to land by the bus stop.