Running through the back-biting,
Traffic-tired concrete by-ways
I come to a stoplight, stirred to
Run on. On my left, sliding
Through the favorite fences built
To hide the dust of toddling suburbia,
Jog women-men and all their
Many cats and dogs and children
Panting in the sun, still bleeding
Over in tepid t-shirt weather.
I squelch the gag, reeling up and
Through the doddering red light.
Fast I sprint to dilapidated home,
The manufactured hovel, still
But just my own. And panting still,
I turn down blinds and breathe the