The former carry me slyly up your
driveway at night. I circle past lighted
windows, slow as a tear trail, stay alert
for any movement inside. Once sighted,
I stomp the pedal, shatter through locked doors,
crashing into your living room or den.
The latter hurtle over countrysides
of fleeing bodies, bolting me through glens
of former peace where now chaos presides,
condemning every witness, crushing poor
souls who dash to stay on track, yet tumble
under my raging wheels. Call it impulse.
Cite incentive. You won’t hear me grumble.
My guzzling molds goads my mind can’t repulse.
Roger Armbrust
May 11, 2010
