The Last Time

I saw Fredricka, she was speeding away in a Benz;
flapping pink helpless arms from das boot.
The curses she nevertheless hurled back at me,
from within, were thus muffled, and difficult
to understand, in German, but I caught their gist,
which went something like this:
you evil stupid disgusting prick, I'd rather be
returned this instant to Hades' driest bowel,
and blinded, chained, and afflicted by boils, scabies,
and 2000 species of parasite, forever remain . . .
and so on, she went on; it seemed she would continue
until both the earth and I would be cinders.
I ran beside the car, snapping now and then at
those same plump arms that had cradled me, held
my last best hopes as an honest man.
Once or twice I nipped a tire.
. . . be taken prisoner by Turks and sewn into a sack
and sold, she still railed from trunk, where were stored
as well the spoils of the last nine days, out of reach,
of course, now I’d hooked hard again left.
A bent man’s way passes under the arch.