I often wake up to the sound of traffic on I-75 about a half mile from my house. I yearn for quiet in my life. I mourn the impossibility of true quiet in the city. I also no that addiction to busyness and unfettered commerce that fouls our natural world and manufactures a culture that spews heir pollution. This poem is an ode to rivers of petroleum kindling an overly concrete whirled.
Semi-Quiet Neighborhood: Ode to I-75
Weather early mourn
Or passed the midnight hour
A river of asphalt
Overly concrete
Divides silence and noise
Half a smile away
The dawning
Of a semi-quiet neighborhood
Delivering a definitive coo
Humming a crude attune
A buzz of impending busyness
Commerce and other intercourse
Ready to rumble
Trafficking in every workable wake
A purr preoccupation
Out bidding us
As you whir
Entreating us
Drone on
So-so much winning
Daze upon daze
The supposed vehicles of hour security
As you worry free
Kneading knot
The future weights
Spewing heir pollution
Like there is no tomorrow
Sounding every alarm
Of eternal wrest
