the weathermen prognosticate no mass
extinctions. Spanish-language broadcasts rile
the dogs up with no más. The underpass
is rife with strays who only know one tongue.
They'd wag, but someone docked them close to home.
Now fido's drunk and barking Frost: "I swung
by rope from roads less traveled by / Where chrome
and rubber tumble / Under Russian thistles.
I've miles to go before I cry." The streaming
Pandora station skips and buffers. Missiles
from South Dakota roll beside the dreaming
vacation-wagons. No-one's reading Strangers
in a Strange Land inside their rolling mangers.
No comments:
Post a Comment