This poem used to sound
like a gargling dinosaur,
for it ran on petrol. Now
it's all electric and whirs
like an old cat's throat.
My friend rode with me--
she said, "You know,
the poetry rush hours
will soon go quiet, will
slither soundlessly along
like traffic pythons."
Home now. I've plugged
in the poem to solar
power. It's sipping electrons,
blithely ignorant of
Daytona, of Monaco.
hans ostrom 2021
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