Meat Grinder

A long black sedan fires
all eight cylinders
as its occupant
barrels around a  
backend go-between,  
approaching a bridge over  
foggy waters.
A buzzard  
sits in  
wait
atop a telephone
pole,
wings  
outstretched–
whether bidding welcome or adieu,
this
rank stranger finds the
gesture
befitting.
 
 
while–
the economy ticks on in an
odd time like that of a broken
clock,
spurring our  
left
feet to  
dance on.