Silver Ford Fusion,                             idling

at the drive-up window:                  These

inner unmoving things                      are

only (are they not) the                      heart-


shaped shields of two                       pacifiers,

pulled by their sour                           gravities

toward the twin bunting-                 bags

of someone’s (only)                           children.


This business route that                   never

took them (anywhere)                      before.

O ferry us, for some                          time,

between industry and                      death.



Originally published in Taco Bell Quarterly