Dust Moves off his arms and chest    as the vent window opens in his volkswagen    hundreds of impalas and stationwagons    idle at the train crossing    The puddles that surround him    are always made from sweat    the open sore on his face reminds him    that his blood is simply temporary       The gas is blowing in the trees    One whiff has brought me to my knees    at first you practice, practice to yourself    you are the very air, you are the very air    you are the very air he breathes       his head throbs and fills    with a big machine bag    I must be the richest man    to ever stand in line at the bank