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IN TOWN |
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by Charles Carreon In town the earth is paved strips of green maintained with effort Fertilized, trimmed, shorn of luxuriance Spaces on the sidewalk reserved for trees chosen, doubtless, for their tractability, Their tendency, proven to the planners, to grow without buckling the sidewalks. Cars -- the city is made for our cars air for their carburetors asphalt for their wheels filling stations for their thirst And the town is full of the sound of their effort Which is the shifting of gears the purr of a late model import the husky rumble of a healthy domestic the emphysemic labor of a degenerated sedan with a dead cylinder, missing loudly as it accelerates down the main drag Sit at a street window and listen to the systole and diastole of traffic's pulse regulated with changing lights and the unheard clicks of unobtrusive grey boxes Accelerating and braking all day long, rubber tired, gas powered, water cooled well-upholstered, shock absorbing thermostaticly controlled steel envelopes with chromed adornments ferry the vulnerable cells to and fro carry them here and there on strange fleshly errands ... breathing and seeing creatures of skin -- soft eyes, rouged cheeks and businessmen's hats and neolite heels inspire pity in mechanical hearts --- they turn off with the ignition key and do not notice when the officer fits a parking ticket under one eyelash They sit outside in the rain as people sweet to each other nestle up in restaurants and fill up on sandwiches and cold drinks They sleep under the hood while high heels wander through the mall and from store to store over the sidewalk by the dripping trees in their reserved spaces Their batteries run down helplessly while their lights stare blankly at a wall, and when their owner comes back they just won't start.
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