by Martin
Ott
No one knows what causes traffic
jams - it's true - video cameras
cannot squeeze sense from the trills
and squeals, nor can the appearance
of a bare-breasted model on a gravel
shoulder guarantee gridlock. You watch
the vendors beneath the ivied over-
pass, waiting for the inevitable Nam
vet selling mirrors with the slogan,
"See more than you ever wanted
to explain." But that doesn‚t keep you
from talking to yourself like a machine
pistol, sweating shrapnel, scared of what
the silence may bring. Through the sun
roof, a trillion suns clutch the night
on paper strings for every person
on earth, and god exists somewhere
in between - a blizzard admired
through safety glass. In traffic jams,
brake lights melt the dusk with wolven
eyes and a voice on the radio tells you
the traffic will be thick for miles...
as if you didn‚t already know how
swiftly the lonely crowds swarm and
that solitary runners slow on mountain
trails when nobody‚s watching.
First published in New Letters