My Human Disguise.
Did we consciously make the poles look like crosses
That communicated power across the plains?
Surely a “T” would have served the same purposes.
On the narrow Ridge Road it is about to rain.
Darkness gathers itself like a bishop his robes.
The truck driver is first to see beyond the curve
And wrenches the wheel hard right, headlights unlit globes.
Two sedans, perhaps one chasing the other, swerve
And then all three are on the wrong side of the road.
One car fishtails as the driver says a prayer.
The other is too slow to brake and both explode
When the truck squeezes metal layer on layer.
The trio leaves the road flying, takes down a pole,
Which crosses all three, not blessing a single soul.