Winter 1993, Volume 10.1
Poetry

MARK WALLING

A Concrete Eternity

Racing down this measured strip in spring
coiled comfort, we glide, humming
past the farm, the barn, the yard, the green
mountain glaze and all those dirty brown
squirming things inside, powered
by some turbo-fire, piston-rod, cam-cocked,
cylinder-fueledwe don't know whatwe just go!
Numbed, knowing no sense
of the road unless the pedaled foot
feels a thud and in the rear view
we see an unsuspecting hare
become a gutted knot.
We feel a sudden shudder, a spooky
wrenching of the spine. But soon it's gone
the twinge and the hareand we breathe
the conditioned air and gently sigh.
(Won't they ever learn to look
before they cross?) And we drive on, blameless,
resolved to do our part, to keep a closer eye
on the road as we dash headlong
for the relieving gleam of the city,
toward its soft neon, its tapered highrise,
and its cold but snug promise
of a concrete eternity.