Danger Eyes
By Laura Lee

You collided with my life like a train into a wayward car—
except maybe I was the train, and you were the car.
A 1980s muscle car, the red paint chipping away, the metal frothed with rust,
but your bass still pumped; your rims shone.
Your eyes oozed danger;
your curled upper lip egged me on.
So gruff, with your scarred chest, your mat of blonde hair,
you locked me in.
Your eyebrows danced—up and down and up again, taunting.
Your engine revved, and your wink said it all:
A vagabond with a blue suit and a red cape,
you were the catch that couldn’t be caught.

With maniacal eyes, I roared on,
to strip the streets of you,
to make a prince of the pauper in you.
But you stalled out, and I rammed into you,
and I just kept on ramming, over and over.
Like the rising sun, I was unstoppable.

Well, I found out death ain’t much like the movies,
set to a heart-warming soundtrack of Celine Dion and James Blunt,
fading away with softened eyes, glowing skin.
No, you had to be scraped from the road,
and I carried you, what was left of you, into the grass.
I remember the shorts I was wearing: crisp white, freshly laundered,
and in them I melted into the puddle of your blood,
and I raged.

With those eyes, damn, you could have been royalty.