Alone Together

I spent the afternoon crawling down the 405
losing my mind trying to make sense
of all the bumper stickers.
And wondering the true meaning of
vanity plates.
The radio pumped classic rock
down my veigns from it's I.V.
lulling me into submission,
forcing me to stare at my own relfection
in the window of my neighbor through unbroken glass.

This highway is like a ballet,
each car leaps and slides in time
with the symphony we play.
Engines drone on with the low reeds while
the horns shout their appoggiaturas
in that all to familiar call and repsonse.
Lane changes are choreographed perfectly,
coming so close but making sure never to touch another
the make it look so easy.
My car sings out his descant above the chorus;
the same old song that never changes key.

I rolled down my window
as the piece crescendoed
to fotry-five and reached
my hand out the window
so I could finally shake hands
with somoene in my section.
But everyone knows that you don't talk
in the middle of a performance.
You look straight ahead, remain silent,
keep your hands to yourself and
never ask a question if you don't understand what's going on.
How can so many people play the same song
but never meet another musician?