On cold October mornings
the people pump their pedals,
as they plow into the waking city.
Strutting down the interstate, a
Chevy lady honks at a gray-haired
Cadillac man; he smiles and winks,
while she takes another bite out of
last night's homemade pumpkin pie.
A semi man, strides down his own
reserved lane; he honks for pleasure,
pulling a cord above his head, to let
the midgets know that he's got a lot
of cargo and a lot of places to go.
The orange flakes fall from the trees; they
blow steady breezes into my room,
where I've been awake since before
the sun's breaking through the
then-cloudless sky.
All night I rolled through my cozy covers,
when I heard the cracks and squeals
that the semis, Chevys, and Cadillacs
never get to see.
At the crack of dawn, I stumbled to the
window, punched out the screen, and leaned
over the ledge to try to see the dark men fight
for pride and life, but the dark and the cold
obstructed the sight of the motions that I'm all around.
When the honks invade my room, I hop
up to fetch some ink and catch the worthy news.
I find a light; I rush down and make that familiar
sound inside my moving Ford. Together, we send
our fumes into the sky, forming clouds over the
temporary guiding light.
Our fumes' meeting with the sky will afford
our clutch onto the passing warmth of the
arbitrary season. We will clutch it throughout
the brightening day; then we'll fall asleep and
fight the dawning of the winter. And so we'll
never get to see.