In the contrived solace of my mythic refuge
sheltered from breathing the foul ozone of the outdoor air,
and withdrawn from the searing heat the day has gained,
my gadfly priggishness incessantly resounds its sullen voice.
Now intoxicated by caffeine, I begin to settle on a lazy chair.
My perception is obscured as I wathced the streams of tiny metal boxes flow along the brambly circuits of parched cement.
Framed unto a glass window, eclectic images are conveyed from the odious urban landscape,
an ugly bearing of the immanet reality of the burgeoning post-modernization.
These stark reflections of patterns trek in contant flux,
yet inchoate, ever becoming but never being.
Wherever they are going,they are apparently
not quite there.
Not Quite There, © 1998 Rob Castro