Eating a pizza sandwich, near dark
May seem pedestrian and worth
No remark

But it’s all in the eating and where
And if each lover of meat
Should despair

At the driven, lit cluster of stars
We call highway or stair
And the treadmill, darkened loom
That production line doom
That chains youth to a certain
Self-serfdom of cars,

Where do we get off this supreme
Duct of convenience?
Where do all the deliveries end,
And where is that lost term, erm..
Beneficence?

I drive through the city, tonight
Avoiding the void of known
Companionship
And by turns, disavow my own rule
For convenience
And make for a snake small room
Where everything is in tune
And all the delivered clutter of life
Can slip, off a pewter spoon,
And make the temporary,
Light.