looking out my bedroom window
i see a stretch of endless black
called a street in normal life
this simplistic title fails for me
because it is a metaphor
carelessly constructed
of half-breathed truths
that echo something larger
i am the car that goes 55
through this lazy neighborhood
seeing what is on the side
but never quite deciding to slow
not that i could stop anyway
that is okay i gladly fly away
because even though i dread
the fact that i will never see
this beautiful street again
i journey to a destination
fairer than the one that is here
wave to me as i go by
weep for the neglect of youth
but never persuade me for a moment
that there is anything worth
stopping for except the end