You want to be noticed?
Walk down Braker Lane at 6pm
and see the yawning maws
in the drive-by manslaughter,
inspire the fumes of auto locomotion
curling the hairs on your arms and throat.
Even the name sounds down-and-out.
Walk the hundred degree mile,
while the seats of passing comfort
trickle change between the cushions
from drive-thru coffee spots,
lending more all the rage to the road.
You want to know why I walk,
now in my mid-thirties, down a dusty path
reserved for the city's transients,
along sidewalks that go nowhere,
islands of development on a stint
considered a no man's land by so many.
Before I answer your nonchalant question
with left-handed verse, teetering on a rant
with gnashed teeth and ill-chosen phrases,
I'd ask each of the drivers passing by
if they'd ever stop if even for a moment
to watch a bee orbit a bluebonnet.
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