Saturday, October 29, 2022

race cars run on a deep-grooved blacktop - today's poem

race cars run on a deep-grooved blacktop

rubbling car tires spline ribbed surfaces

while rpms register on cockpit tachometers

like a Camaro briefly reflected in mirror sunglasses

or sound furrowing like needles into vinyl records

 

our human race considers oxen-dumb jibber-jabber

like a wind blowing no good over a race track

and meandering day after night both to be sensible

going further faster to no avail like a 45 on 78 rpm

 

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