St. Chris is clipped to keep us safe, EZ pass marks discounted tolls, handmade bows tell this vehicle was new, although often instead there’s a little flag of where we were from fading with the rosary beads or tassles Are now permitted within moderation, stickers on the back telling me- honk if I hate Bush, who’s proud of their kid’s PS, believe in the Rangers, or insist we never not remember a certain day of the year, given the world fell down for a lot of this Island And who breaks for fairies, supports our troops in magnets, tells me that America is the greatest place there ever was, except to boycott Walmart, Costco and those darned import cars, now step on up and into the SUV and watch the little sedanites beneath you With coffee cups and Snapple bottles flanking the streets like children released to the park in summer and the sanitation officers with T.J. Eckleberg eyes instead poking their sticks in my rubbish to verify milk carton sortation a more urgent misdemeanor We are lost with blue tooth technology, having conver–stations without faces to read that lead us through stop signs and polite lies as rear seat DVDs play to little ones for ten minute trips for take out dinners at two different places And we carry tuneless winges over the cost of fuel, no one else pumps or washes the windshield, checking the oil as out of place as a proper gentleman suggesting a walk with nowhere exactly in mind- quiet company, but maybe a coffee later…