Interstate Ode

I.
A few days after the wheel - we will call the human A - A thought up the axel.
Then A died.
In the memory of A we have the cart, which a sweating Aramean yokes

to an ox for a walk at a time when roads stretch slowly behind
unfolding in reverse. Ruts repeated in grass and mud.
Time. More carts. The idea of the wheel spreads
a slow fire where it goes. Roads follow, a map shows,
errant spokes on a freehand sketch radiating outward. 

If only it were flat, damn it.
The world has no respect for roads, or planar geometry.
Just mud and ruts.
And why is the shortest route between two points no longer, necessarily, a line?

It is probably a road.

II.
Two cross (perhaps in a wood) a problem: intersection.
Solution: code of conduct. Eye contact,
a gesture from the unoccupied left hand,
a grunt signals to a cart how to proceed and then progress.

Etiquette today:
octagonal, red rear-view tar smeared asphalt evergreen
air fresheners concrete curbs and rear-view mirrors slurped sodas
sunglasses cell phones Technicolor green electric lanterns red to yellow
jangled in the dusty wind on cables rear-view strung from metal pylons and
A wraps hands around a wheel wrapping objects in rear mirror are than
they their own Safari ® steering in acrylic leopard pelt appear

an asphalt kiss
in precise symmetry.
Two, three, four lanes – in either direction. At any given exit,
an entrance available in either direction where the only reason
to pause is lack of fuel.