|
A Rush Hour Of Angelenos |
bumpers ripe with bling
jostle in sluggish bravado,
a chain-link gold of them
extending up the 405,
clasping the 101,
burnished by sundown.
if tar is an arm
they're pinprick diamonds
crusting a carbon-woven
bracelet.
if it's a throat
they're a necklace,
ten lanes of waxed gems-
carnelian, moonstone, lapis,
amethyst, onyx, malachite-
all colors of auto body
small as antibodies,
glinting a titanic vein,
sinking into night,
gloatful as pyrite,
turning on each other
with bloated eyes,
dead sight
on metal beds.
copyright 2009
Chris
Crittenden |
