Past the turpentine camps,
brilliant green lamps held
by woozy militiamen,
the car with a nose of its own,
with headlight-eyes, sniffs
through the mountain fog,
heart palpitating, belly
hungry for gasoline pancakes.
Ghettos rave in their sleep,
butchering alto solos,
harvesting white snakes.
The car, evermore threadbare,
feels lost on Chevrolet Avenue,
a victim of the Taxi Wars.
Salamanders glow like tiny cutlets
and each Inn is in secret
a detention barracks, each
exit an entrance to underground
cuniculi, concatenation
of clandestine suburbs
from which there is no escape
until dawn, when bellboys are young.