When I lie on my couch

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When I lie on my couch



When I lie on my couch,
I can still hear Ninth Avenue.
I think about my job
with the Taxi Bureau,
in a dream flow of taxicabs,
black cars, radio cars,
gypsy cabs,
limousines & liveries.
I see L-plates & Z-plates
& T-C plates.
I remember walking to Eighth Avenue.
In my first response to the avenue,
I felt the heat and the gray expanse.
The traffic approached,
like a waterfall.
I saw a rainbow,
full of Yellow Cabs.
Were these cars my daffodils?
I nodded to the ground, remembering
with joy a play I made, called,
“Agamemnon, King of Cars.”
As I lie in a field of concrete,
beside the busy ocean,
I feel the strange
coherence of my life with pleasure.
High noon in metropolis:
the glass & metal cars
shine. Suns dance
over the windshields.
From the fenders & trim,
stars flare,
stars in daylight.
But I shift, unsettled
by the next thought: using the image
that orders my life is more than
freedom in a sweet lyric.
It’s a fact as a fetish.
Cars driver my work and world.
I sing the machine, like a slave
in love with its power.
I can’t rest, the noise
of traffic in my mind.