Lots of People. Lots of Cars.

Lots of People. Lots of Cars.

This car in front of me goes
quickly on the freeway,
and the truck to my left is tall.
It's afternoon and there
are lots of cars.

Now and then there are signs of the desert-
a saguaro or two peeking,
a tumbleweed in the median.
Mostly, though, it's city.

I'm not against modern transportation.
I like talking about engine sizes.
When my ribs feel the rumbling of
semi-trucks I am compelled to acknowledge
the power of all that metal, gas and grease,
well organized. The people get from A to B;
there is no evil in that.

And those buildings I see, the tall ones
above walls that hide the sights and sounds
of the freeway from houses, those buildings
were built straight out of the ground
by dark sweaty men yelling Spanish -
tool belts, forklifts, cranes, trucks,
cement, bricks, port-a-potties, black puffs
of exhaust and brown clouds of dust-
I would look at them longer if I wasn't driving.

A car just got cut off a few cars
up and there's honking.

I like camping. I can't explain why.
It makes no sense. To be cold in the middle
of the forest at night- why do people do it?
It's warmer in your house, and safer.

I brake as the traffic thickens.