Underneath

I was driving down Route 51

when I felt a teeth-clanging jolt.

I assumed it was my car,

maybe something wrong with the transmission,

so I pulled over

but quickly felt it again,

like being struck by an invisible freight train.

Then I saw the jagged crack, lightning-shaped,

in the black asphalt,

a fracture that widened with every subsequent quake.

I thought I saw something,

so I got out of the car,

peered into the crack in the middle of the road,

broken yellow divider lines.

I looked into the crevasse,

where black smoke was pouring out,

and flames licked the surface of the road.

I noticed then that the asphalt was hot,

the soles of my shoes sticking to the melted tar.

Under my feet was a lake of fire.

They later told us it would burn for a hundred years.

But what I never told anyone else

is that when I peered into the fiery fissure,

I saw something looking back at me,

a very large, black-lidded green eye

narrowed with hate as it met my gaze.