I am hearing the echo of every freeway
in America. Exhaust belch fluent tire smear
a dopplering of approach and the after—
too much noise to find a word for it.
Double double-nickel intensity on this one.
Kiss of chrome against chrome on that.
It was thought we would become
because we were connected.
The children of concrete are idling
on the entrance ramps, rear-view apologetics
move over goddamnit - and we have - and the gorgeous
smell of that concrete flowing from white trucks.
The radio sings: we are born to run.
Sometimes we wish a nature more perfect than ourselves.
Mark Simpson He lives on Whidbey Island, Washington. He has a calendar, and as each day passes, he places a careful X in the small white square of yesterday. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Sleet (Pushcart Prize nominee), Columbia Journal (Online), Third Wednesday, and Cold Mountain Review.