Western Express poetry
On the western express, the traffic is silent compared to the elements, the wind and rain, the shouting advertisements, the screaming of the minds of people around me. A verdant jungle edges on this concrete expanse; a gunfire of greenery on either side. Oil pools on the asphalt display glossy rainbows.
Drivers lean forward, lean back, lean out of windows. Graffiti glares. Billboard models stare beautifully, vacuously, unmoving, unfeeling.
Cars fall into rows like dominoes. Raindrops bounce off the pavement like oil on a tawa, in dance, in flight.