In Traffic

Pot sucker.
Alloy and emerald cage wires
baking in the sun.
Big nose, staring at your bumper sticker.
Drive!

What the hell is up there,
in that attic of yours.
These asphalt sands are keeping me immobile,
along with everyone else.

Metal trees have lost their branches.
The silhouette of a factory glimmers
in the radiating heat waves.

Not New York; not Philadelphia.
Somewhere in-between.