Running to Chicago
October rain, the cold before the snow,
Brings Ontario and Quebec running to Chicago
On uncoupled trains of tractors and vans
Spraying great clouds of misery, forbidding to pass,
As they ferry their merchandise,
Or deadhead to their goal.
There, they open orificially, and empty
Where traffic never sees them,
Or penetrated, impregnated in rented wombs
By gassy little forklifts’ jolting heavy pallets.
Clogging both lanes, trucks torture my progress
Barricading my fender, raking my heart
While sapping my spirit;
For the highway is never built
For a thinker’s passion,
Or a lover’s desire
Or a dreamer’s quest.
It is concrete or bitumen, after all
Darwinian flat and and reality hard.
Serving life, but without it’s telling essence.
I know where I am; yet I look for a road
A twin tracking trail with puddles to jump
Where road trains won’t travel
And loads don’t delay-
A free footpath for lovers,
A fair avenue for truth,
And a far highway to the stars.
For I’m not from elsewhere, in quest of Chicago
I’m just trying to find my way home-
Before I run out of breath.
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