Remember the day you tried to kill me?
(In your precious '65 Buick Electra 225
with power: steering, windows, seats, locks.
And air conditioning; with automatic transmission.
Proudly rust-free!)
Yeah, it was a beauty. You treasured that car.
And you were going to drive it into the bridge,
with us in it,
just because I said that it was time for me to move on.
You knew that it was inevitable.
I'd told you so many times.
Anyway, I remember how you drove wildly through the streets.
Like a man possessed,
your white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel never faltered.
You shouted that you wouldn't live without me,
(even though you had been doing so for many months.)
I bet you wondered how I could remain so calm
as we neared the end you had chosen for us.
How I didn't scream, or try to grab the wheel,
or even make an effort to talk you out of it.
All I did was say that you'd break the car.
Something inside your madness must have heard me,
because your foot slammed the brake pedal so suddenly,
that even you were surprised.
And then,
we talked of how it would be,
said our final farewells,
and you drove me home, safely.
We'd laugh about that day now,
if we still knew each other.
© Ellen Pepper 2022
No comments:
Post a Comment