ARMADA OF SORROW

Wicked engine vehicle barrels right by, oblivious to its rumbling fury via luxurious interior and Dolby Surround Sound System.

Stop & Go, came & went, no trace left behind but carbon dioxide everywhere, every day, around the globe.

While we poison our oceans with plastics, and our bodies with microplastics, we say goodbye to the coral reef.  Bye!

For we inhabit an age where our beasts bear convenience, not burden, and grey clouds in the sky look like great big udders, ready to bear their mammon unto the thirsty plants below.  

A giant red howler truck groans past, with furious intent – gravity, at full throttle – A blue Buick just ahead has run out of gas on the busy street.  Hazard lights flash as the lady grabs a red plastic gas can out of her trunk; nothing can be done; not envious of the hours of fun ahead for all of them.  

Street Life Central, right now, 3PM on Federal.  In the bus shelter it’s cigarillos and Mad Dog; a grip of paper bags holding cans of brew surrounds, scattered 7-11 containers & packaging lie everywhere; a man in a motorized wheelchair plays country music on his radio; a girl passes by with a tiny kitten nestled in a pink backpack.  “Meow” says the kitten.  

Only the crustiest of punks are riding longboards now, as Violation Voices laugh and banter and pass about Flamin’ Hot snack foods.

A lady with a Pikachu backpack, a big bruise on the left side of her face, and carrying a baby in a pink terry jumper eyes me as she passes by, while a tank-topper in a Broncos cap blows a vapor cloud through his nose.  

No one here is playin’, as I give in and become, for a while, one of them.  One of us.