Gas engine

I got used
to long breaks;
the orchestra stopped
for me
to take a breath;
where the air
was only filled
with street noises
from the not-so-distant
freeway.
Every time I honked my horn,
I took a breath.
and I laid
back on the grass
into a life bearable
on the stalks
lying; pointed small green
tips push
into my skin,
I enjoy the Intermezzo
of horns and racing
tyres
which roll their rubber
off
on the asphalt
and carry small
stones over
the mixture of molten
building powder
and grinding
and the spinning tires and
the wind cuts
that carry the noise.
I’ve never seen birds
fly
across the driveway before.
You must be scared
of death, my feathery friends;
You’re avoiding it;
that’s significant
I’m sure somewhere somehow
and the orchestra starts again.
– Trumpets drown the birdsong.
Short moments passing by
I was used to it
most of the time
I see
what there is to see
and listen
after the cars
in silence.
But when the orchestra stops.
maybe in a couple of hours,
I will have another
moment
to breathe

 

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