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
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.