Pulling Out

Exodus is a traffic jam,

and traffic jams are dangerous.

Ahead of us, armed with sticks and rakes,

a child’s brigade does battle

on this doomed track hourly blown to dust.

To occupy themselves, they race a tank.

Dust is faster. Tattered surveillance blimps

yank against steel tethers over the saltlick plain.

The road goes boom again. The flimsy means

by which we try to distance war

don’t matter anymore. Disguise your car,

your hair, take to the air, stare down

on the terrible mirror of the ground

where those who didn’t qualify

for tickets to the sky

wave goodbye, goodbye.