"Ponders"
The lone wanderer, as his soles touch
Asphalt and his shadows brush stray ferns,
Ponders,
Steps,
Ponders...
In his thoughts-- the only light left that
Kindles these streets--
Clocks turn back and see
The hazy sun re-rising from its set,
Times when the highways, those
Rivers stolidly grey pounded into land,
Are abuzz and ever-shifting
As highways ought to be;
And what now that it is dark?
Those of the past
Spoke wonders of the moon--
The same moon the people have now
Abandoned for beams of
Apathetic light.
Trucks, walkers, shoes:
All locked in for the nightly hours.
Yet who is it really that is locked in,
The shoes or the people so diminished in their
Musings and talents by the
Flickers of a screen?
