They travel in a funeral procession
of horseless carriages, but a lot faster.
Metal coffins on wheels of black.
Beeps and growls from the bowels
of the animal they ride.
The lanes and streets,
now aching rivers of traffic.
To cross you need
to have your wits,
luckily, I can become
a bat in a finger click.
Everything moves so fast,
my eyes are now too old to keep track.
Life blurs past
but my sense of smell is back,
I can smell a single drop of blood
in a biblical flood,
or at the very least a bathtub.
I can hear the sound
pumping and gurgling through the veins
of every man or woman
that enters these lanes.
I can tell if it will be good,
if it has a bit of an alcoholic kick,
or if the human is sick
from the sound I hear.
Back in 1854,
we didn't have the entertainment
that I see around here.
Though most of it
is out of bounds for me I fear,
as I'd have to get up
before the sun leaves the sky,
but I've been to see a movie,
magical moving pictures
into a different world.
I own a TV.
Though mostly
it's just the test card girl
and an out or service tone.
I prefer my modern day gramophone.
Not much happens after midnight.
but I go out for a nightly flight.
Like to flap my wings
and grab myself a bite.
You see some stragglers
around the local inns,
a few clubs
still packing them in,
like sardines in a tin.
So there is often
quite a buffet to dive into
but so much of it tastes
pickled today.
Thanks for reading
Please take a look at my new collection "Torn Pages"
100+ all new poems not shared here before.
https://tinyurl.com/KCtornpages
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