Electric birds

Electric birds made of flint and steel -
friction sparks each end of their wingspan.
My fingertips ache to touch the sky like they can.

Soot fills the air as my foot hits the brakes.
I'm stuck in this traffic jam.
We're all stuck with a short lifespan.

The crowded streets heat the air that I breathe.
We leave our lives on the nightstand
and walk out with short attention spans,

just to surf the asphalt in tidal waves of start and stop,
stare out the windows and watch our heartrates drop.
Wipers clean the ash as the smoke pours from the mountaintops.
Sheltered from the sun until the church bells ring out 5 o'clock.

Electric storms sometimes light up the air.
Soaked to the bone in my dress pants.
I just stepped out like a blind man.

Now buildings swoon, moved by plates in the earth.
We're just a blip on a timespan.
This world's just one big island

swarmed with flocks of folks going the way of the tunnel mind.
The light at the end is a hoax that coaxes the resigned.
We fight and we fall and we'll always leave a man behind.
My new shirt and tie left in the mud as I stand in line

to take my turn to wave goodbye.
This is no place for a child.
So with our backs turned, and hand in hand,
our shadows will disappear over the horizon
with the setting sun.