Under Cars

There are some things under carsstriking and unexpected. This morning, a bird dragging his hind legs like bendy toothpicks soggy and stuck to the gravel ground, made a wing on cement sound-- so delicate and furious so dying to lift, and loud, I felt my ribs crush under the same stilled rubber. Only, how much I felt made me oddly faster. Other than frustrated birds, children seem to make their recent frequent appearance as plastered remnants, imprints of our obsession with speed. We go too fast in our pods, and miss not only the kids but the process. Behind the wheel, I feel more metal than flesh, and while everything blurs past I am nothing but air eating air— ruining slow— swallowing gravel seeds.