the weird origami of Common Courtesy.
Their cars in way of rush hour
purr back idly at traffic light metamorphosis
as the commuters in line down the avenue
grow steadily sicker and sicker.
The belted ones
boil in their leather seats.
They remember what 1982 smells like
and they try to make applause
but their hands stick to the wheel
and their stomaches rip up inside them
and then it seems
The End of the World
is utterly official.
New Lovers
with no attention
and Baby Faces
glued together
are Illiterate to the three color vocabulary
mandating the Order of the Universe
and of the intersection.
But alas
A Savior Appears
Rejoice, Rejoice!
the Passenger in the Buick
has finally had it.
"Fuck off and Find a Room!" he says
And the Avenue uncoils--
only 12 seconds late for dinner
