I-10, between West and East

Isolation flows
along this concrete
river which is no longer

The journeys back and forth
are no longer as wearing
as once they were

There is a predictable
magic in the sound of the engine,
the speed, the poetry of the commute
written in rubber left on the asphalt,
gleaming from headlights through
a dirty windshield

There is a kind of peace,
here, yes, there is peace
of a kind

But the cacophony
strains through
smiling acceptance

sends forth notice
that the desperation
cannot be quiet
much longer.

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