losing route 61
morning begins, in
waves of pixels; red, orange, gold,
splashes across the screen, as
the symphony of mechanical whirrs, the pounding of
iron drums with wooden mallets; crescendos, reels, the pitch
off-center, unremarkable, a replica of nature’s emotion.
and the automaton motions his or her pegs
to the synchronized beat, treading
soft brown sand and keeping its eyes fixed—
pointedly—across the ocean of synthetic greenery;
a mess of leaves, grasses, matter.
the winding route paces,
a memorized stability embedded in the soft wires of
the auto’s pale silvery forehead. It
watches nothing, listens to its own engine purr,
one hour, five minutes, two seconds to go.
but this one, the cables pulsing gently,
stops; two bottoms down in the ground,
sockets facing upward to the multihued beauty.
opening its orifice to the sky, remembering, falteringly,
the soft moisture of the rain, the darkness of the night
that comes no longer. It closes its eyes and sinks,
losing route 61 to memories.
