May 2005 / Volume Six / Issue Three
Damion Hamilton
Morning Rush Hour

I spotted a half a dozen dead squirrels
On the roads this morning
As billions transport,
Through the glint of dreams
Secluded to their own,
Like a lone bird in a cage
Wounded aspiration dragging
Its callous feet
Searching for bagels and provolone cheese
As swift metals and glass parry and clash parry and clash
On staid suburban roads
The sun has satiated
Flooding its yellow heat
As a gentle wind blows faintly
From Saturn
As demons in uniform destroy themselves through motion
Passengers on city busses, weighted with anxiety,
Ride passively their reveries
Future in the word as it beckons,
Its ambivalent audience
Whom rather be tap dancing
In the days of the battered
RETURN to May 2005