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.