Ten Minutes To Live Poem by Dennis Lange

He drove a little roadster; red, it was.
It seemed to be a speeding lady bug.
It stood out from the other cars I passed because
It was an antique model some men hug.

He passed me by; I did not see his face.
For all I knew, a phantom at the wheel
Was sitting there, a specter in that space.
But only later, shiver did I feel.

For, afterward, I heard the news,
As though a single solemn church bell tolled,
That he alone (thus none else to accuse)
Had wrecked the car and now was growing cold.

'Twas then I shivered at the specter - Death,
Who'd perched upon the road where I had been
Short moments for that man and his last breath.
Appointment in Samarra - minutes? Ten.