Double Indemnity
for James M. Cain and Billy Wilder

I am the car Barbara Stanwyck used
to deliver her husband to his death.
I'm the vehicle her lover hid in, wire in hand,
ready to snap the cords of her husband's neck.
I'm the wheels that took the wrong turn
to the dark alley where the deed was done.

Later, on the side of the railroad tracks,
I waited for the body to be taken,
lifted out of me like a cancerous tumor,
dragged away from the homicide spot
so my passenger seat would appear innocent,
unfamiliar with viciousness and violence.

After the criminals dumped the body
they wanted to drive toward relief and calm.
At first, I wouldn't start, made them feel
trapped near and in a prison of evidence.
But eventually I let them travel in me again.
I knew they would soon
drive to their waiting doom
and murder their own plans and connections.
I sensed their careful sloppiness would overwhelm them
like car exhaust or lit gasoline.
It would prove as flammable and explosive as their love.