by Irving Feldman

    Their quarrel sent them reeling from the house.

    Anything， just get on the road and get away.

    Driven out， they drove. . . miles into countryside，

    confined and bickering¹， then cold， polite；

    she read a book， or looked out at hillside pastures；

    once， faraway life came close， and they stopped

    in mist for muddy， slow cows at a crossing，

    then， tilted²， shuddering³， a tractor came across；

    coldly silent other hours of trees after trees

    interspersed⁴ with straggling villages——then hot；

    her voice pulsing， tempestuous⁵， against the dash，

    buffeted⁶， blew up； the slammed her hand down， hard.

    "You let it happen——you know you did.

    And you make me the bad one——all the time！

    I won't stand for it another second." And then，

    irrationally⁷， "Look at me， I'm talking to you！"

    What half-faced her was mulish， scolded sullenness⁸

    ——who gripped the wheel and to scare her drove faster，

    scaring himself； he felt out of control， dangerous.

    Downhill， the road darkened， dropped out of sight.

    At the bottom， racing⁹ toward them， three lights，

    and trees. . . . Remember this， remember this，

    she thought， the last thing I will ever see.

    Diner， tavern¹⁰， café， whatever it was.

    The car spun¹¹ suddenly into the parking lot.

    She grabbed at the key， threw it out. Shaken， they sat

    ——while their momentum¹² went on raging down the road.

    They knew they might have been killed——by each other，

    had someone been up to just one more dare.

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