Untitled #50

A slim young woman with wet hair is
sprinting down the street weaving left
and right like a deer in fright, brushing
her hair and holding tight a flailing purse
on the way to somewhere.

Now I am going somewhere, ambulating
away down the highways of Farmington to
where the sidewalk ends and the dual-lanes begin.
I imagine opening day at the Rite Aid across the street –
that plywood box with a brick facade and neon lights,
the pharmacy where “IT’S PERSONAL” –
and recall that old Rexall
was driven out of town after two hundred years
and at least two buildings.
They said they were bought out, but I know that
we all take comfort in this corporate consolidation of our world.

I keep going, on the stiff grass of median strips,
or across front lawns;
walking is far too romantic for the bike lanes.
Cars swoosh by and pretend that pedestrians
don’t exist, they say goodbye with the
cruel aftertaste of gasoline in the air.

The memory of farming persists in a sidewalk cider shop,
juxtaposed between gas stations and clanging, rattling,
roaring logging trucks HAULING ASS to be back in time for dinner.
One hundred million tons of steel on wheels.

The freedom of my walking legs is being
snatched away with each inch of auto-mobile pavement.
I hold my hands tightly to my sides and walk on,
headstrong, brace myself against the endless rapid
whooshing of air that threatens to take me with it.


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