Step out your door
and sweep the bird song
from your ears - listen:
the traffic mounts

a roar, punctuated
by the squeal of machismo.
It sits upon your head.
Throbbing, agitated.

Your blood is carbon
monoxide and your breath
is sooty. Is that a wild
siren look in your eye?

Still, the traffic squirms
before your burning
face, and smells of wicked
tail and middle finger

so you fight the urge to be
polite and lick your teeth:
this road is a tongue in the crotch
and a horny reconnoiter.

08/30/2005

Posted on 08/30/2005
Copyright © 2026 Jim Benz