The front left this time, like a black
Dali clock, a cooling puddle of lava,
complete with its own vicious hiss.
We’re caught, lame, on some sun-pounded
off-ramp or interchange; no jack, but
a perfectly usable, full-of-itself spare
in back offering all the insight and
aid of a thought-bubble inked in.
We hover, curse, kick the other three
as if this were their doing and listen to
that hiss-become-sigh from a World of
Things that has tired — not of its Being,
but of us. Hear it wishing, wishing
we’d either prepare ourselves fully
or leave off, stay home — or better,
be borne like a virus on the thickening air.