Day Trip

Compressed by traffic, streets
seldom sing songs for asphalt
and tires — hardly ever speak
to sidewalks, condo mountains,
lights like strobe time.  Yoked to
commerce, shop windows are
are a reflected image of passing
pedestrians, disinterested mantra
marinated in profit.  Pedal to
the medal, people leak from
doors, nova in a wildfire of
love burning nothing except
their cocoons.  Metamorphosis —
regression until the only words
which are heard are babble —
the final direction of sunlight
and imploding creation.