Commuters

The world gushes past

Outside my window.

It is midsummer

And the morning sun,

Plump and buttery

Invents a new day.

I watch the

Congregations of folks,

Hustle toward their morning bout

With the dense underground prairie

Where the iron monster lives.

Commuters, they mutter and grunt

And preach about the scalding heat,

Hung motionless against their skin.

And I, in the cool

Of my retirement

Listen to the blue bird sing.