the world smells mostly of dead animals and
diesel fuel these days,
with raccoons on the roads of our lives rolled over,
rigor mortis supporting stiff fuzzy limbs.
they're cute while they still move, but now
the flies flock.

and on these, the roadkill-and-oil-spill
streets of our lives — we are faceless,
tons of fake steel and flammability,
death on wheels with a down payment and jangling keys —
playthings for infants. crouched behind
dirty glass and glowing dashboards,
we are invisible;
we are our plastic-plated brand names, make and model,
flashy-colored, pithy personalities
lined up, alphabetized in an asphalt desert.
pick your poison.
(remember the mail-in rebate.)

all is equilibrium on the
highways of our lives — rushing,
flashing lights and just on the edge of chaos.
the balance is delicate — tanks suspended from
silken ribbon — and we are
obstacles,
not people.

and rigor mortis holds us stiff,
while
the flies flock.