Blinking through towns
like monotonous slideshow reel:
All untouched, intangible.
Blurs of grey pasted against scratched up panes
streaked with acidic raindrops
dried up by the sun,
which in those arid landscapes bespeckled by
tiny factory cities, hides itself
behind plain brick and mortar buildings,
skyscrapers cemented into the horizon—
monstrous bird-killers— whose staff of
wistful window-washers and jaded janitors
are tasked with erasing all evidence of
blood and feathers and shit
that makes the mundane more colorful…
So that businessmen and women
aren’t subjected to the passing of time
that exists beyond the narrow corridor
of office buildings and vacant bodegas.
So that they aren’t unnecessarily troubled
by those depressing, distracting humors
that waft through the smoky air
on the unremarkable daily round-trip drive
between workplace and home setting.
So that they aren’t put-off
by palpable dangers of Walmart
and movie theater shootings
or simply and unintentionally metaphorically,
by broken butterfly wings dangling
from truck driver windshields.
So that they aren’t whisked off
their pristinely polished shoes—
always cautiously stepping over cracks
and never inching too close to the tracks—
to be carried away by carrier pigeons
sending their message across seas
where perhaps a foreigner
might find the thought unique.
And that outsider might travel by boat,
since the airfare will cost more,
in search of that one town on the rolodex
that sounds softer, slightly less redundant
but still smells like gasoline and naphthalene
only occasionally sweetened, although discreetly,
by chloroform and antifreeze.
And perhaps that alien soul unburdened
with the anxiety of when to set the clock back
might shake the sidewalks with each
wondrous skip, toppling down buildings
to make way for green mountains,
reflecting the long-forgotten sun
in his widened toothy smile,
spicing up the noontime lunch hour
of ham & cheese sandwiches and
undressed salads to pots of paella
and massaman curry.
Maybe then at the center of town
on the corner of Main St. & Park Ave.
the traveler will break through
the Twilight Zone existence
like the cyclone in the Wizard of Oz—
all while remaining unfamiliar
with these analogies— and re-expose
the full spectrum of fall colors and
sunset hues to the once-tinted eyes
of the stunted townspeople.
One can only hope for such a miracle
in this small city town I call home
as I look out the window of the train
at the unknown yet familiar streets
I stare through daily, remaining
stuck in time on this paper
in this poem, like my thoughts,
until someone new reads this
and somehow saves us.
I am not a poet 