Poem: LA Highway

 

LA Highway

 

corpuscles in cubes

with i-don’t-care chins,

an AC absence of sweat,

 

herd-beasts in lockstep

alien to the bison and the passenger pidgeon

and the slain roam of the wolf.

 

black rubber circles

under metal boxes don’t care,

don’t have legs, as if to say, 

a stray dog without a collar,

that last vestige of the long-gone wolf,

can’t outrace a carburetor.

 

the carburetor has more stamina 

than all those millions of extinct pidgeons,

though its flight holds no pleasure, mindless:

a bottom-feeder, oil-pan glide.

commuters,

 do they dream of throttles,

while they sit there, 

accusing their own stress,

stuck in a row of red rectangles 

blotting out the stars?

 

 

 

=========================

7/22/25 ... mods ...

6/30/24

red rectangles = brake lights

12/11/23  lots of mods