As Stationwagons Replace Our Families



Round the clock they drag
Burnt wheel rubber
          and soot gutters
reflect the sky’s            runways

Heir presumptives gang way
        to make way
for hybrid metal
        into/like skulls every make and facial evolves

Seems like we disappear under parked cars
        whenever we are inside them
their armor fitting snug
        that shade we shut
around us, their coffin-shapes pulling us in
        and claiming us theirs, out own estates
inheriting by and by
        from road to roads         extending

That which thrill exhausts
        exhausts thrill
each breath cars take
        takes our breaths away as one
loop hole loops widest within the wheel
        of fast wills

As pathways yield way
        to layers of stonemoss gray as dusk and
        waves of fluid amber glossy with gas, the skies are
smoking the skies are toking the skies are freshly tarred roads.

--- Chris Custer