“How many blocks?” she queried with her foot upon the brake,
“And what’s the street where I should make the turn?”
I started to reply but then I realized it would take
too long and luck as well for her to learn
she’s traveling upon a planet’s skin.
For her there’s only gas or brake at foot,
and every ad or update to take in,
by page or poster, tone or pixel put,
till slogan-simplified, what was complex
transforms itself to shallow; till the place
is layered with refuse; and even sex
is blanketed, and managed without grace.

I would have helped her maybe, if she’d stepped outside her car
and taken any reckoning of where
upon her mother earth machine and frantic driver are,
but she was only noticing my hair.