There is a building on a road,
A gate to toll the passersthrough,
That's been abandoned for a few
Good years now; all the stiles are closed.
A monolith of stone that's crowned
With blinking lights in dozens sits
Upon its highway lanes, admits
No use of road, since built around.
An express lane became the one
Lane once technology caught up
With speed; it lies inside a cup
Of phantom lanes, of passage done.
The tolls enforced by cameras now
Have obviated booths, and so
The flashing lights that once meant slow
Rebound and now mean speed around.
Upon these expediting lanes
A curve of candles lights the pass,
Illuminating trees and grass
For once along night's shadowed plane.
Fluorescent sentries flank the street,
A glimpse of forest mystery
is visible in whispery
Night. Then once more just road concrete.
The mirrors in their corners glow,
Periphery becomes a lens
Of warming orange light, descends,
Transforms, a singe before it goes.
A place for my poems 