The people, yes,
and their cell-phones, yes,
raised at arms length,
The people, glittering in nylon
twice upon the strong neck of
invisble money. Turning upward,
thinking, twisting upon
the trunk of industry,
craning their necks upward.
The internet cables connecting
tissue to tissue. Music rushing in with wind.
The streets & the new roads &
the million acres of mirror-image
suburban boxes are raising
their hands to ask a question.
Who can answer them?
Who has the wisdom to parent
these children who cannot recollect
the scattered letters of their own name?
Scattered by wind, cemented over.
I held my hand out the window
at 45 miles an hour to catch the light while
O'Reilley's piano poured rainbows,
wet & bright, into my silvers car's interior.
I gulped & in that moment I knew what to tell
those children, young in bone
although immobile in the impossible
plastic safety-suit of the suburbs,
but then I blinked, a moment later,
and completely forgot.