This is a poem I wrote in college, back in 1999. It has two titles, one is the one I am showing here: Angel of Death in the Backseat. The other involves the name of my poetry class professor in place of Angle of Death. I’m not one to use real names in my writing, so I will refrain from sharing here. This particular professor was very much into over analyzing. I know many poems have multiple layers, but analyzing runs the risk of splitting hairs over something the author may or may not be intending.
Take that for what it’s worth. The only thing true in this poem was that this professor had me frustrated, a teenage college student level of frustration.
Angel of Death in the Backseat
The wind tearing against the glass.
Twenty-two miles to go.
Two fathers equals two lovers,
Two haters, two fighters
One long list of broken dreams.
Three childhoods, three nightmares.
One standing on the bridge.
Two pathways, two dead ends
Eleven miles to go.
One hundred miles per hour
No turning back now.
Three best friends, three dead friends
Last one finally jumped.
One last chance to join them all.