Weathered, and tethered to nothing,

Bound,  but not by laces, but instead by  the two faded yellow lanes,

That divide this highway,

This gap between two crumbling cliffs.

No rope bridges in between,

No swashbuckling cutthroats, hacking through bramble and bush, in search of

Something.

Anything that almost  looks like them.

No stuntmen,

Whose goggles  are fastened tighter than that of any scientist, in search of

Something.

Anything that almost looks like a trophy.

                              A  black flat,

Melted and nearly flattened by scores of screeching  tires and curse words and cursory glances and

Clinched fists, and

Car-seats buckled so tightly.

so tightly.

Affixed  now to the asphalt,

Asphyxiating on the the puddles of exhaust and crude oil, and

An unpleasant steamy rain,

That gathers at  the same temperatures  from which they fell,

                    maybe even hotter. 

And runs away,

                    maybe even hotter.

A warm bath for a sole that could use one.

                                                                A warm bath, when the shower is out of order.

A black mamba,

It’s jet black scales, onyx by any other name.

                    Once considered  exotic and organic,

By the farmers that never actually attend farmers markets,

By the same  judges, who leave their powdered wigs on when they sleep,

And talk on their phones during movies…

Domesticated and left to breed among the          common snakes,

                                                                                      Among the common sneakers,

Bowing to the the reverent  applause.

A black star,

Ready to implode,

                        Ready to take the other galaxies and their scrambled planets for a ride.

Checking the ignition switch, and thumbing through the hymnal…

Beaming the flashlight through the dark woods,

                                          Cutting holes in the air, and blinding oblivious moths,

Disregarding anything remotely remote.

                                                                                   But never changing the channel.

Barely touching the ground,

                                                               Disregarding the  all -too- popular use of ellipses,

That unfortunately never seem to   make an appearance  during an eclipse-ses.

Searching for the oldest, wisest  tree stump in the forest,

The same  one, hidden behind curtains of saw-grass, and termite mounds taller than

Most skyscrapers…

Abandoned,

                                                                                                               Like most skyscrapers, 

Searching for the only place to sit down, and sing that perfect hymn.

Splayed out in the  very green grass, the very next day.

Contemplating retirement,

Stewing over a certain stew and a curtain call,

Consulting  any number of electricians from all corners  of a phone-book,

Consulting ghosts, from  the only four  corners of the  mausoleum,

Looking for anyone to turn on the right light,

Except the fireflies…

who haven’t even put on their reading glasses yet.