Getting Where We're Going

Surfeit of distance and the wracked mind waiting,

nipping at itself, snarling inwardly at strangers.

If I had a car in this town I'd

rig it up with a rear bumper horn,

something to blast back at the jackasses

who honk the second the light turns green.

If you could gather up all the hornhonks

of just one day in New York City,

tie them together in a big brassy knot

high above the city and honk

them all at once it would shiver

the skyscrapers to nothingness, as if

they were made of sand, and usher

in the Second Coming. Christ would descend

from the sky wincing with his fingers

in his ears and judge us all

insane. Who'd want people like us

up there yelling at each other, trashing

the cloudy, angelic streets with our

candywrappers and newspapers and coffeecups?

Besides, we'd still be waiting for   

the next thing to happen in Heaven,

the next violin concerto or cotton candy

festival or breathtaking vista to open

beneath our feet, and thinking this place

isn't quite what it's cracked up to be,

and why in hell does everybody

want to get here? We'd still be

waiting for someone else to come

and make us happy, staring

through whatever's in front of us,

cursing the light that never seems to change.