WHY A CAR IS NOT A GUN

Sometimes the grill-flattened sky is
what it takes to pulverize ego, scatter
ashes through a land you never know,
cauterize the mind, speed your face
over stone, savor the crops of
sweat and patience.
Plaza corners, airport curbs,
hotel desk reunions made
possible by the slowing
of engines, cranking of
clutches, belts lifting to
every language of hello.
Babies drive mothers to neon
semi-circles of sliding glass; taxis
drive lovers to the show; corpses
drive families to stand quaking
in the wind, nodding at a hole
made by a bullet, fired from
a thing whose only story is kill.