(…with tentative apologies to T.S. Eliot)
Let us drive, then, you and I
when the morning spills out from suburban sky,
let us drive and let us now commute
from suburban grass to urban loot.
Let us crawl on shrubbish cul-de-sacs
where networked souls run tribal tracks
to lead us to an underwhelming question:
Just don’t ask us why it is
that engines purr and tired wheels whiz
while red lights come and green lights go
twitting tweets of decaprio.
The gray exhaust that rubs its back
upon our concrete ribbon track
slithers down and wanders up
through traffic jam with coffee cup;
we measure out our days in pixel spoons
with idling fumes and idol tunes,
while texting out the urgent news
that paris is yearning, wall street has a short fuse.
On the cells girls come, and women go
tweeting of bieber and decaprio.
And indeed there is time at the traffic light
before red turns green and tweet turns trite,
to wonder “Do I dare?” and “How’s my hair?”
To think of debts but not to care–
and would it have been worth it after all
to call my prince, so cute, so tall?
while johny boy in the middle lane
dreams of bustin out and raisin cane.
But they all grow old, and faces fold;
they shall eat their pastries rolled.
We have lingered in the intersections of the game,
with idling pipes and spirits lame;
we wait to crawl, mutating paws
o’er ancient seas with neo-claws.
Throughout our sprawl and tyrannies of the urgent
lurk restless souls that stir, insurgent.
But we do grow old, we grow less bold;
we shall wear our courage rolled,
while on the freeways we come and go
dreaming of Jeanie and Michelangelo.