Seconds are fragments of shrapnel that compose the bullet of the hour

The hour of loafers hypnotized into jumping from
gas pedal to brake,

Stark, yellow spray paint lines on freeway cement
remind you of the dried up ravines that bordered your old church,

Orange flags marking the location of pipelines, so weightless in the wind,
why can’t they be wildflowers that barely sway?

Approaching the city center,
minutes become more methodical—

With your drumming fingernails on the wheel,
Congestion in the city center calling for sudden stops and gut-wrenching go’s,

Shift stick into park,
The aching ankle hits the pavement, car door shut.

You ascend in an elevator, transferring from one seat
to the next,
life to afterlife—

Intersections filled with traffic
become incoming emails.

Blaring horns
become coughing coworkers.

Paycheck dissolved into petroleum,
Dollars shoved into machines dispensing diesel.

At least somewhere in this
repetitive,
time-consuming,
abysmal expanse,
you could briefly recall flower petals
that grew outside of the office’s periphery.