No mere arena
can suppress the F1 multiracecar roar -
a circular crescendo
that pierces the city,
twists and shrieks
down avenues and alleyways,
reflects from crevasses,
echoes from incorrect corners
and belies its true source,
omnipresent as it screams
from officeblock wall
to wail to wall to wail to wall,
passes around up and over the skyscraper streets,
the caterwaul cry of speed
as everywhere as the faded graffiti
that quietly chokes an aging, bent factory;
and the ferocious octane banshee
charges through that longdead scrawl,
suffuses those forgotten bricks,
bringing to the dying structure
velocity's strength
and the factory leans over
just a little further,
breathing the power,
dreaming of triumph.