Oh, gigantic, hideous thing, long, aluminum,
rectangular box with pleated sides and flat top, tinted
windows, shiny black tires, and numb passengers
nodding at dumb shows inside, why do you exist? Oh,
container of stuff, rolling along, in command of four
hundred horses, the cost of your travel from mountain
to sea matches the yearly income of two campesinos.
¿Es usted la bestia del apocalipsis? When the wealthy
man at the helm, high in his padded cabin, back of his
leather chair sweaty, red-faced, hemorrhoids athrob,
drinking gin to wash down two Excedrin, tired from his
days at the bank, has a heart attack and crashes, will
anyone care? Perhaps his children will weep (but
maybe not). I see your future -- your round legs
ground up, recycled, your tin skin punctured, little
wood-burners installed for cooking, smoke stacks
jutting out like broken arms. Shelter for the homeless!
© by James M. Cox
Used with the author's permission.
|Purchase a framed print of this poem.
James Cox describes himself as a "Taoist wild man, poet, dog lover, philosopher, old soul, cook, dishwasher, flower finder, father, healer, husband, aphorist, novelist, and real person." A resident of Whittier, North Carolina, he has published poetry in Silkworm, Paradigm, Barnwood, and Pinesong, and is one of the featured poets in a forthcoming anthology from Winding Path Publishers, entitled Echoes Across the Blue Ridge.
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