Silver semis glide on asphalt ropes which dangle over bottomless drops—this is known as a highway—boxes upended with air holes shake in the wind braced for kicks—known as community—climbing the ropes in a wind tunnel—known as driving without sleep—putting insects into the popcorn—also known as Top Forty—elbowed by the Rio Grande familiar sensations—the bottom falls out a wet sack—trusting a politician—the big hands on the two the little hands in yr pocket—that’s entertainment—snubbed at the ball that’s amore—grappling with forbidden tongues—picking up the mail—tendons sore from construction—age—the heat’s on—the deck sways—the typhoon roars—elementary my dear penguin.