Traffic

This was written in response to Prompt #36 at Read Write Poem. It is based on a study of the painting “Standing in the Shadows” by Rick Mobbs. The work of Mr. Mobbs can be found at his excellent site, Mine Enemy Grows Older.

.

This blazing car, this traffic, this

sick procession — if there’s a heaven

it must look like this: all the good

people gridlocked at the gates.

Fiberglass and steel souls wait to

crawl an inch or two, internally

combusted.

.

Sitting in this rusting oven I

might wish to be a bird. But this

word, this tongue, they’re tired. Was

that a shot I heard? That bad already?

Steady. No, everyone wants to be a

bird.

.

I’ll pick horsefly. Irritate the enemy.

Feed from giants. Lurk in the yard

by the pool. More like my time at

work, at school.

.

If only I could cool the air…stare

straight…I’d be something naked,

something strong, an apocryphal

animal pieced from parts, hawk

span, landscape body, pig heart.

Attitude of toad. I’d lay my huge

torso across this desert, let my

open wings become an empty road.

.

We listen to the same song on

our radios, a single soundtrack

as this lava flows to some

hoped-for sea. Fantasies of

.

ice. A thing from some old

story, handed down for ages then

dropped — arctic sky god, friend of

foals and flies, lord of frost. We travel

parallel lines in the same direction,

how could we be lost?

.

If only I could stand, if my

brain could sleep, if only it

would rain. Is that thunder? No.

The engine’s been about to blow

for miles. Out of spite it continues

to run. And we roll toward that umber

nimbus of exhaust around the sun.

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