we keep building highways between our homes, rearranging entrances and exits.
the noise of those honking machines are getting to my head.
I picture cars going through the motions of ant armies,
ants carrying on their back automatic people,
who ask “how are you?” and move on
the automatic people are blind
they can’t see:
men who sit on city corners and near walls, with misshapen and shivering hands.
children who dodge tires and bullets to reach the library up the hill.
I want to move in small increments, move space lightly, kindly
to create a detour in the journey of the automatic people
to carry in my mouth a heart
that knows hellos.
Claudia Rojas 
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