Always beyond, there is no last step
into time, no hurry to the finish line, yet
we race, stampede in a flight of hooves
bound blindly to the herd by dust,
by flashing lights at crossroads charged
with chomping bits of machinery
at the heart of it pulsing, swelling every
artery, every capillary and vein fleshed
with quick credit and convenience,
begging for business with easy access.
Visitor to another world, this
pickup won’t fit any place to park.
drycrikjournal 