Tires

Hot highway underfoot
Tiredly abused
Seeing all these weary faces
Metal box confused

Follow the dotted line
to the horizon
where maybe there are wings in the hills,
eyes in the trees,
that will give vision
to see past the congestion
past the lines of red
and the twins of white glaring back from the other side.

Maybe beneath this cloudless sky
beneath the tar they run over and over and over
beneath the figures of 9 to 5
beneath the toiling of notches and hands that count
maybe….
beneath all of it
there will resurrect an understanding –
rain revealed soils after too long dry –
of what they drive towards.
An understanding
of speed bumps
of signs
passed in haste to get to a place
thought to house home.

Maybe under it all
there is peace.

Maybe these road blocks
lining us in four lanes
to junctions and directions
that lead us to Nowhere -
maybe… those will tell us something.
Maybe the trees that line these sidewalks,
maybe the clouds that decorate our blue
maybe those have some idea of where we’re going.

We keep on moving;
white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel
brick of a foot held to the gas peddle
ready to go at a moments notice
and yet the destination…
the destination is a question mark.
A period on the horizon of which we cannot see
we do not know,
because the wings of the hills
have not yet opened,
unfurled into something that can take us
farther than where we are now.

Maybe these exit signs are only dwellings,
Moments in space
that allow our hearts to stop,
breath to catch
even though the air is so full of smog
that breath feels more like torture
than relief.

Maybe the arrows that direct us
devastates us from the other direction…
Maybe those have some significant measure
to where we’re supposed to go.
Do they know what we don’t?

All I know is the line
the line that separates us from the heavens
the line that keeps us lodged
Here
in the Now
where gravity has a hold on us
far stronger than any love could

Is that what has bound our wings?
Logic
Physics
the significants of something explainable
Evident
Measurable
by calculations and numbers?

Or is the thing that bound us,
stripped us of feathers,
The mind behind the thing that believes
in them.

Hot highway underfoot
Tiredly abused

I think its as tired of being treaded upon
As I am treading upon it.
Maybe it is as tired of the fragments left behind
As I am of fracturing upon it.
When my tires burst
When I am left stranded upon its breast
Does it tire of my presence
As I tire of the moment?

Hot highway underfoot
Tiredly abused…
Well I am tired too.