Over Atlanta
Hub that crawls, runs and flies.
Planes that reach eighty percent
of US population in two hours;
scrape dew from soaring buildings,
their bass roar of commerce,
harmonizes with a global symphony.
Percussive slap of half a million
shoes underpinning the clank
of freight cars. Hornets’ nest
of humid nights
over,
layered hum of street car,
over
light-rail,
over
rumbling 18-wheelers that
reach eighty percent of US
population in two days,
over
railyard’s tangle.
Sherman scattered
rails like great grandchildren.
Rebs hammered back and
whistles jeered. He turned—
heated and bent rails around
live oaks’ black trunks.
That time you could hear
a pine needle’s whisper as it fell,
and Atlanta didn’t fly,
run or crawl.