Where Everybody Drives Because It's So Empty
Psst. I love you, Walgrove
but don’t let it get around.
Such an alternate route you are,
so un-congested and heedless of lights,
I love your contours, your long stretches,
the way you rise and dip.
Maybe we should stop meeting like this.
People will talk as if I’m taking advantage.
If word got out you could be ruined,
trafficked by the young and the reckless,
choked by foul emissions and abusive honks
like those other mean streets.
Look how coy you are
starting as modest 23rd St.,
fifteen blocks east of Lincoln
and when you’re done at Washington,
re-named and re-born, in your mysterious way
which admits no impediment,
so stealthily and svelte you have slithered
ten blocks west. Walgrove, Walgrove,
your name alone takes me away --
descendent of Walden Pond,
as arboreal as a grove of eucalypti,
so cerebral with two schools at your feet.
My own path less traveled,
the one that brought me this far,
stumbling but still on my feet,
Whisper to me, Walgrove, I’ll follow you anywhere.
**********************************************************
Lincoln Boulevard
You are the north and south of us,
the missionary’s road,
before colonized by the car,
old sins paved over for new ones.
Ugly as a mirror,
beautiful as a Rauschenberg collage.
Lincoln, the emancipated street
conceived in liberty
and dedicated
to motorcycles and cars,
pre-owned and junkyards, quick lubes and Sig Alerts,
billboards and signage for paychecks cashed,
shiatsu massage,
palmists and thrift stores.
This is Americana where nobody walks.
Whitman’s ear is listening hard
for bumper stickers singing.
O Captain, my Captain, turn away;
sprigs of lilac no longer bloom.
We’ve emptied the wetlands
in your name
and filled the open road
with torrential traffic.
Lincoln, you are gasoline alley
thick with exhausted air.
Yet there are still some
who lean and loaf at their ease.
Salesman and surgeons mingle
at the Cock & Bull saloon.
A dentist stops a street vendor for a rose.
School kids with backpacks,
like day laborers,
haul their load
and day laborers line the lumberyard.
The taxi driver keeps a screenplay
under his seat; the crowd scene got away.
Where the created equal eat
Sushi and Salsa, pad Thai and pastrami.
Here is our body electric,
neon diners and all-night Laundromats,
Pollack’s drip and Ginsburg’s Howl,
clear as a dusted Frappuccino.
You lead to the airport and take off
to Californificate the world..
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