Olympus, give way
to the rush-hour race-car drivers
and the pencil thin beards
adorned with great care
Somewhere a child is making a smiley face
out of mice turds
And somewhere a boss is making a mountain
out of another
And once in a while I'd like to bike home
and not have a bigot
bump dormantly,
or seethe in cloth seats
against a tapestry of young children
