Jan 2020
THE ROBOT SAYS GO
The robot says STOP!
And the chromed steeds align, champing, their reeking tails
caked in ferrous reminders of asphalt and steam.
Still that bright ruby glares.
White-knuckled jockeys, feigning repose, swap dat ol’ faux decorum.
But nobody’s fooling anybody.
Halogen eyes framing high cursive grilles.
Round rubber hooves hugging silvery seals.
Glass-encased egos, too streetwise to dream,
jack shoulders to lobes for a shared primal scream…
Veins race across foreheads, eyes tear up the road.
And just when it looks like those veins will explode—
The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go!
The Emerald looms, the frenzy resumes:
Alpha males ****** the old and infirm,
their eight-banger fumes blurring laggers in plumes.
Jocks in jalopies thread rivals and worm
their misshapen monsters round planters in flumes.
Past loads wide and listing—and back in the fray!
Harrowing, narrowing, the pack makes its way,
to one more agenda, two downshifts away, where nearing,
where rearing…appearing like some kind of god in the flow,
this robot says…
slow.
Brief as bliss, blind as bluff,
that amber eye opens, (not quickly enough).
The lead runners race, redoubling their pace!
—rolling dem bones, refusing to place,
hurling their monoliths all but atop
pedestrian puppets who, horrified, hop,
leaping like bugs till the robot says
STOP!
And thus realigned, still fuming in kind,
the new leaders gnaw on their dashes and wheels.
Damning the wire, their backsides on fire,
nerves shooting pins through their palms and their heels,
the gentleman’s juggernaut takes aim and steels.
Eyeballs near bursting revile the stop—
And just when it looks like those eyeballs will pop…
The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go!
Copyright 2019
contact Ron Sanders at:
ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com
The robot says STOP!
And the chromed steeds align, champing, their reeking tails
caked in ferrous reminders of asphalt and steam.
Still that bright ruby glares.
White-knuckled jockeys, feigning repose, swap dat ol’ faux decorum.
But nobody’s fooling anybody.
Halogen eyes framing high cursive grilles.
Round rubber hooves hugging silvery seals.
Glass-encased egos, too streetwise to dream,
jack shoulders to lobes for a shared primal scream…
Veins race across foreheads, eyes tear up the road.
And just when it looks like those veins will explode—
The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go!
The Emerald looms, the frenzy resumes:
Alpha males ****** the old and infirm,
their eight-banger fumes blurring laggers in plumes.
Jocks in jalopies thread rivals and worm
their misshapen monsters round planters in flumes.
Past loads wide and listing—and back in the fray!
Harrowing, narrowing, the pack makes its way,
to one more agenda, two downshifts away, where nearing,
where rearing…appearing like some kind of god in the flow,
this robot says…
slow.
Brief as bliss, blind as bluff,
that amber eye opens, (not quickly enough).
The lead runners race, redoubling their pace!
—rolling dem bones, refusing to place,
hurling their monoliths all but atop
pedestrian puppets who, horrified, hop,
leaping like bugs till the robot says
STOP!
And thus realigned, still fuming in kind,
the new leaders gnaw on their dashes and wheels.
Damning the wire, their backsides on fire,
nerves shooting pins through their palms and their heels,
the gentleman’s juggernaut takes aim and steels.
Eyeballs near bursting revile the stop—
And just when it looks like those eyeballs will pop…
The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go! The robot says go!
Copyright 2019
contact Ron Sanders at:
ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com
