Traffic Poem by Joanne Burns

it’s still the same, signs on the grass
say don’t feed the fish, instead of
don’t eat them, still the same tired old
sports star tropes, failed golfer falls
on his sword, shakespearean high jinx on
the links, how could he be such a loser
with forty million dollars in loot his
hound’s toothed fan heartily burps, new
golf courses still consume asian
farmlands mad cow disease is still
on the cards, just don’t eat the fish
or feed them, ensuite bathrooms are
still being constructed there’s so
little time for church, family’s still
a noun, like nest of tables, to covet:
a home still provides for its
family of cars, even if everyone’s
anxious to leave they all still
want somewhere to park, lie
perfectly still on the tarmac
your poem is about to be heard
its peristalsis leisurely, and
loyal as pop up toast, a grecian
urn still sits unravished in the gift
shop window behind the six pack
traffic’s roar, its proprietor ms salome
sitwell snores into her pocket sized
koans, the figurine of the milkmaid from
Shropshire drops on her face to the floor
and still
the rain still falls