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 bickering, 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, tilted, shuddering, a tractor came across; 
coldly silent other hours of trees after trees 
interspersed with straggling villages--then hot; 
her voice pulsing, tempestuous, against the dash, 
buffeted, 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, 
irrationally, "Look at me, I'm talking to you!" 
What half-faced her was mulish, scolded sullenness
--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, racing toward them, three lights, 
and trees. . . . Remember this, remember this, 
she thought, the last thing I will ever see. 
Diner, tavern, café, whatever it was.
The car spun suddenly into the parking lot.
She grabbed at the key, threw it out. Shaken, they sat
--while their momentum 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.

From Beautiful False Things: Poems by Irving Feldman, published by Grove Press. Copyright © 2000 by Irving Feldman. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.