mr. Someone drives
pedal horizontal.
vibe, vibe,
the engine drumming mechanical.

mr. S feels the blast of the wind through his hair,
stereo on, windows down, cruise...

tap, tap.
Slam!
he says, "god damn"
traffic, traffic, traffic.

mr. S sees bullies all around flexing their muscles,
but no one dares touch anyone else.
these ponies want to break free of this crowd
they're trapped like cattle
and mr. S, a stallion, is no more able than they.

they play these ridiculous games of tag,
follow the leader, imaginary warfare.
as if dogfighting, they swoop
in and out
but kill nothing.
they accomplish nothing.
they are nothing
but obstacles on the runway.

mr. S is a pilot with ice cold veins, grounded.
he is a bull with red vision
surrounded by matadors that can kill with a touch.
but they do nothing.
they are nothing
but obstacles on the highway.

so he sits, waiting for the sick red glowing before him to dissapear.