Steve Clark

Where Do the Bicycles Go

A nation of fops
peddled between---cars
                        on the freeway

waving walkmans
raising gloved fists
shouting------------Solar
                        Power
                        back
                        and
                        forth
                        across
                        white and yellow lines
                        in a----------call
                        and-----------response

                        pausing to cough
                        occasionally
                        on fossil fuel exhaust

A nation of service economy employees
stuck velcro coffee cups
to the dashboards
of their Buicks

said
..."we will cling-----fast to our habits"

it was "they" who saw
                the traffic jam
                as a symbolic indication of their lives
                and grew sad
                and drummed fingers on the steering wheel
                and grew frustrated
                and grew white knuckles
                and counciled stomach acids
                and gritted teeth
                and were---furioius---
                wanting...instant 
                mobility...honk, honk...
                without, of course,...honk, honk...
                the perspiration...without, 
                of course,
                the tyranny of the wristwatch

                would have, of course,
                no leftover impulse control,
                of course,
                after a weeks'
                worth of tight-neckties
                and poor office ventilation

                would have, of course,
                a 1-ton, 2-ton
                chrome and metal reply

                Smack,    Boom,    Crunch

 

O' flying headphones and helmets

O' Bent tire-frames and unravelling cassette tape

O' Man...(if only the fops
            had been more sublime)

if only...

they'd be, no doubt,
picking dinner
right now
from their organic vegetable gardens.