Here come the ones who chose
the second option, advancing
across the sad freeways of America
on their way to not a damn
thing worth carving in stone. Still,
see how they white-knuckle
the steering wheel, the cracked grill
burping through rush-hour traffic
and a slow-tumbling sun
that reddens the windshield
as though pelting it with tomatoes.
They know that tomorrow, too,
they will eat from a microwave.
That life is mostly for pushing
numbers from column to column
so the electricity stays on
and all your children can flee,
and pets who are even more helpless
and closer to death will stay
grateful for the cans
you open with fingers that must
seem to them like magic.