Sounds Like Smog
Out on the highway the dragons will wait
patiently to be weighed, scales upon scales,
smoke puffing gently from their intake pipes
with that curious scent of tobacco
and gastric juices. We flit past in awe
of their iridescent sheen, their answers
to the questions of the stray State Trooper,
the huge potential of folded talons
a curving meter long. When bat wings twitch,
buzzards struggle to regain their balance
and the paper debris of fast food joints
left from truckers’ lunches takes flight again,
riding the air stream of the Interstate
to the next scenic overlook. In time
the dragons will get there, too, each taking
the spaces of three or four tour buses
but no one will complain, though we all hate
those moments stuck behind them in traffic.
You sit there, blind and gagging on the smell,
but too impressed to really mind them, just
how did they get here, where do they go, and
how many miles a maiden can they get?