Poem: LA Highway

 

LA Highway

 

corpuscles in cubes

with i-don’t-care chins,

and an AC-sterile absence of sweat,

 

these herd-beasts in lockstep

alien to the bison and the passenger pigeon

and the slain roam of the wolf.

 

the black rubber circles

under the metal boxes don’t care,

don’t have legs--

as if to say, 

a stray dog without a collar,

the last vestige of the long-gone wolves,

can’t outrace a carburetor,

 

a carburetor with more stamina than a falcon,

though its hover gives no pleasure

in its bottom-feeder, oil-pan glide.

these commuters,

 

do they dream of throttles,

while they sit there, 

accusing their own boredom,

staring at a lane of red rectangles 

blotting out the stars?

 

 

 

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6/30/24

red rectangles = brake lights

12/11/23  lots of mods