[This is the earliest of my poems I still like. It was actually a very literal description of a car trip.]


My car gliding above the Thruway,
treetops surround me
as an angry sax blares
and a man yells, “Run for shelter!
Run for help!” Cigarette smoke sky
presses down. Boats pass, like visions,
the huge blank billboard’s silent scream.
Dark-faced Indians, arms spread wide
pray to the spirit of their dead car.
I have never seen so much traffic,
so much metal that refuses to follow smooth contours.
Towers raise their arms in warning.
Beware, they cry.
Escape while you can
at the next E-Z Pass to oblivion.

Leslie Gerber 8/99

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