i listen as they trample
with dinner knives through
a field of antique stars.
their headlights, hungry
dueling brothers. humans
are always in need of a race.
who will defeat all distances?
the road, a dark ribbon
around the neck of ghost.
i want to know how far they go
& how they choose which streets
to tear into. if they rush
with their windows open
or down. does the music they play
invent catacombs in their skulls
or do they sing to forget bone entirely?
memento mori is what engines say.
gripping the gear shift:
the wooden spoon their mothers use
to stir a metal-belly. dinner
was or is autumnal.
everything now orange.
passing children as they
pick the season's last strange
wild flowers: pink & lilac faces.
from the racers' windows, a pasteling occurs.
every corner houses their mothers. every porch,
their father's cigarette smoke. how & when
do they decide to slow? when they leave
their machines are they rid
of some urge or are they
even more haunted?
do they always want more?