MAN IN THE BOX

Rush hour finds me back on the road to nowhere--

one of the multitude of morose or comatose

wage slaves blending into the traffic flow,

merging with the stream of semi-consciousness,

farting and belching along,

darting and weaving,

to gain some positional advantage in the race to the BIG HOUSE

where I pay homage to da MASSA,

a man whose fondest sentimental memories

are of raining bombs upon the Italians--

a place where, like a chess player who's maneuvered himself into a corner,

they will keep me in check until quittin' time.

He appears at the stoplight

like a notice for a bill I forgot to pay.

Derelict with a sign that says give me money.

I don't, though I can't think of a good reason

not to--isn't he putting in a day's work,

standing in the sun, trying his level best

to hold that placard straight,

same as the guy on the road construction crew

who pulls his thumb out of his ass

just long enough to shove a sign

in your face that says SLOW DOWN?

A man in a cardboard box

needs only to flip his lid

to observe the stars,

while I, who gave up reaching for them

ages ago, try to comprehend the difference

between his heaven and mine,

knowing that truth is like the sun--

not everyone sees the light at the same time.

And though I pretend not to notice him,

what I really want to do is roll my window down

and say, "HEY, let's you and me--let's hit the turnpike together...

RUN while there's still time--

head north in the summer and south in th-

but by then the light has changed...

and I'm back on my road to nowhere.

I guess it's just as well...

I couldn't live in the shadow of his pain,

nor ever think of a reason to be that free.