You were in James Dean’s car the night he died.copyright 2010 Matthew J Wells
They say he let you sit behind the wheel.
You hit the gas and kissed him till he cried
And just before the crash, he made you squeal.
You were the one who gave those stupid pills
To Marilyn and said, “Take twenty-seven.”
And you told Hemingway: “Time is what kills,”
And bought the shotgun that blew him to heaven.
And now you’re here beside me at the bar,
Buying me shots and laughing at my puns.
I say: “What will it be? A speeding car?
A stroke? A heart attack? A blaze of guns?”
“Oh no,” you purr. “Just something sweet, like this,”
And stroke my cheek and lean in for a kiss.