It all seemed like some kind of sport,/to see patrol cars whizzing by me, /aimless in every direction./But then again,/ who’s the mystery guest in the back seat? /Same suspect every time?/ The shock of his escape/ has very little competition. /Whatever, he’s a runner,/ other than me; he’s indifferent./ Walk don’t run, past cultured tulips/ growing in the midst /of sprockets, other junk. /This scene brought tears to my eyes,/ but now, the current I stream on/ seems to be a gentle one./It oversees things, / the faces of those no one knows,/ but that’s the least of it/. We were bred for this,/ before time came upon us,/ we were caught in a fade,/deep in the park, / busy at fishing for false glory./With bamboo rods, plastic reels, /sassy hobos nap in thickets/ I lunch on cheap bananas all my own.

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