Coming from Buffalo
in electronic thunder,
Moose sits on a bridge between nowhere and anger
in the tumbling down of numbers
a regular formula
he had about the morning rush hour –
a Moose species
in phone-land, locked down and gated,
bets against himself
all spontaneous and specialist
a long way and back again.
Looks down on himself: he is muted,
spewed forth finally from heated tunnel –
each bump a jolt concentrated
and without thinking
in a glass eye of blind tempo,
tools ready, eyes ahead, weather-beaten, almost military.
The memory of Washington
Each morning in a mirror:
to make a million.