South County Poem by Taylor Rosewood

Turbocharged denizens eat organic,
while the stilled and the rusted lie dying
in the mustard. That's just how it is when
your face is tinged blue. You're guided
home by your ride and the warm stroke
of data.

And home is a villa at a place called
Turtle Ridge, where you go to walk
barefoot on a million dollar floor. Too
bad I'm the only turtle you've seen in
quite a while. But I guess you never
saw me, because you didn't even
swerve.