I watch the on and off of brake
lights in this polluted river
of asphalt called the 405fwy
balancing attention on the car
ahead, what I need to do after work
and downing cold coffee on the way.
While counting trees, and miles
there’s an angel on the middle divider
waving a thumb hoping someone stops
to notice anything, everything, other
than their cell phones.
The cars streamline past, even Jesus
drives by in his motorhome listening
to Bob Dylan and speeding away
from constellations of metal and blood
skin and oil, clueless and unaware
of the objects in motion.