The kissing couple stood on the hard shoulder,
not ten yards from the place marked by a cross
where someone else was killed. There’s nothing bolder
than lovers’ hubris — they can’t picture loss.

The rush-hour traffic seemed, as one, to brake,
arrested by their legs and arms entwined,
or by this knowledge: all their deaths would take
was one car passing on the inside, blind.

It was so fitting — lovers need the guts
to stand tall, stick their fingers up at fate,
even if the whole world thinks they’re nuts
and they’re still kissing when it’s far too late.

What fools they were! What fools all lovers are!
And how I wished to be them, from my car.