Wheeling Into the City at Rush Hour

Wheeling Into The City at Rush Hour

My bike floats down the hill
into traffic, where everyone seems
so much busier than I am,
but no, it's not the people
who are busy, it's the vehicles,
the multi-wheeled iron animals,
the autos with windows of shaded glass ,
the trucks rolling on smoky side streets.
The people resemble you and me:
their eyes don't see very well,
their expressions are doleful,
and they're always shaking their fists .
But their cars are new and well-built,
and even the ones that aren't,
the ones that have bent fenders
and loud mufflers and odd parts
hanging on the frame, even these
seem to be trying like crazy to placate me,
to say something to me in plain English,
clearly, in words I can understand.