I noticed it first in the driving,
on one of our notorious freeways.
It was Monday at rush-hour
and I was going 90mph to escape
a feeling, when a man in a muscle car
tore past me with his hazards on.
The freeways as vacant as a Sunday
afternoon. The empty public buses
on the 10-E, with their imaginary passengers
pressing weary, nonexistent heads against
soiled windows. An electronic road
sign that once advertised traffic times,
now advising how to avoid a disease.
And the junk in the emergency lanes
meaning nothing and now everything—
A dead dog. A shovel. A child’s shoe.
“This place needs a plague,”
drivers used to laugh
while stuck in traffic.
Constant L. Williams is a poet based out of Los Angeles, CA. For more information please visit the website.