Freeway roars more than ever,
not because it is a Monday.
With August time is pushed against A/C windows,
glaring about where blind spots signal danger.
Only congestion is quiet.
The speedway whines under the weight of grey.
The police siren screams in haste haphazardly,
with authority, a cymbal, on its path of pursuit
in order to keep mobilized migrations
inside the lines.
The fog rolls by, pushing through and cutting off
the idle sun.
A red-shifting light through diesel smoke
imposed speed limits as a dare,
to supersede a sense of departure,
with one eye
fastened to looking back,
The other I
travels light.
Painting by Joseph Stella, 'Battle of Lights, Coney Island' (1913) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
