Poem: LA Highway

 

LA Highway

 

corpuscles in cubes

with i-don’t-care chins,

AC-sterile absence of sweat,

 

these commuters,

 

these herd-beasts in lockstep

yet alien to bison or passenger pigeons

or the slain purpose of a wolf.

 

the black rubber circles

under their eyes don’t care,

don’t have legs--

as if to say, a stray dog without a collar

can’t outrace a carburetor,

 

a carburetor that has its own kind of power,

wings that give no pleasure

in their bottom-feeder, oil-pan flight.

these commuters,

 

they dream of nothing, anymore, 

except throttles,

while they accuse their own boredom,

 and stare at red rectangles

which blot out the stars.

 

 

 

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12/11/23  lots of mods