At LAX – Photo and Poem

At LAX –

A motorcycle wrecked in the carpool lane, 

just like when I’d driven 

my daughter and her boyfriend here 

three days ago. 

One hour and five minutes to go one mile. 

Time, though, makes all traffic pass, 

even if it’s over for some guy cutting 

between cars in so big a hurry 

it was worth never arriving. 

On the parking garage, 

I stand on the roof in the shimmer 

of the old LAX tower. So futuristic 

it was obsolete when they anchored 

those arches in the middle 

of postwar prosperity and piped water 

from NorCal. I take the picture. 

The iconic future now a relic. 

It’s like when rain threatens, 

but doesn’t fall. In the morning 

the marine layer will flow in, 

muting the colors and lights, hanging 

the tower in drapes of mist. Through 

the low clouds the jet engines of aircraft 

on approach and lifting off will roar 

like surf breaking on a shore we’ll never reach. 

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