Speeding past the exit ramp,
I’m flying in overdrive,
my 70 mph wake
blowing wishbones snapped short
of dream into dust yellowed by July sun.
Drawn as human to our magnetic stutter,
my grip on the wheel
shapes my transit through city canyons
into my clean, well-lit office.
Humming along to the jazz anthems
spun daily by the FM D-J.
On duty before dawn,
she conducts the transit,
coffee cup in one hand,
voice rolling into mike
like a river approaching rapids.
Consumers cubicle bound over cement
inhaling the pace
as the work-week lays blue-prints
over the tunnels of dreams.