THE DOME

Jay Moglia

I ride the town through people's living rooms
small unclaimed parcels with no visible boundaries
areas that shift at random
a block-- a ledge-- an alley, or a fountain perch,
a vague outline moving and thickening
against the current of the passing city.

It's a foggy region
occasional sparks intrude, frighten and inspire,
yet ultimately point up the vastness
of the fog, as they form and disappear
in split second time.

Everyday the mechanism is running
big numbers stretching out-- spread so wide--
small yet mighty voices pierce the veneer.
separated and deep in their own plight,
they form a mosaic that churns and chimes.

It's rush hour now and another
sequence has passed.
Cars race to the next red light and
ATM's get happy hour spillover.
I calculate angles and make my move.
I ride through people's living rooms.

There's a slight breeze as the sun
sets on K Street.
The temperature has dropped to ninety
and a storm is lurking.
I slip through a small gap
into a prism of exhaust--
with a deep breath and a pedal stroke,
I hit a smooth surface and look around.
I need to see the dome so that I can communicate.