1: still pudding

The rolling rhythm of northern Virginia's sleepy green 29 North
collides broadside with highway 66:
a gridlock grapvine introduction to the District of Columbia.

Eastbound: a sunny concrete incubator of new species
(fauna had long replaced flora)
with chirping uniforms, hungry writers,
and stiff-boned corporate law hustlers so young and anxious eggshells
still stick in thier teeth and yolk still coats thier wingtips.

This new city: a map of pocket-broken toothpicks and wadded dental floss
tangled by byways, buses, and eight billion bridges,
an autopsy of arteries clogged by arteries and vessels blocked by vessels.

Traffic here is tapoica:
even the space between the cars is
still pudding.