Excitement burbled among the masses
As they crushed through the turnstiles
In their off-the-rack jerseys and faded caps.

Pewter clouds teared, tarp blanketed the field,
Not a single pitch was thrown out on this semi-religious holiday.

But fans' spirits were hardly dampened by the rain delay.
The game would be played later,
And something had changed in the air.

Win or lose,
Cowhide slapped into leather.
The odor of sausages wafted off the grill.
Bats cracked hopefully,
Electricity crackled through the bleachers.

That old ballpark magic
Conjured enough ambiance
To swallow a lazy summer whole.

Prototype robotic semi-trailer truck gets rolled out.
It’s tricked out with speed control, radar, lidar,
Autonomous braking, collision avoidance,
Sensors, cameras, GPS.

All manner of state-of-the-art tech replaces the driver,
The imperfect driver
Who needs to sleep, who stops to eat,
Who speeds, snorts amphetamines, smashes into hapless sedans.
The automated truck has no such weakness, ten-four good buddy.

"The driverless future," a suit boasts in boardroom.
Another job fades, like waning daylight
On that endless ribbon of highway.
Shortly, pitch darkness will descend
And envelop the countryside.