Saturday, March 20, 2010

Prose Poem #3

Ten Dollars a Gallon

Oh, gigantic, hideous thing, long and aluminum, rectangular, with pleated sides and flat top, tinted windows, shiny black tires, and numb passengers nodding at the dumb shows inside, why do you exist? Oh, box 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 fat, wealthy man at the helm high in your padded cabin, the back of his leather chair sweaty, 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? Probably not. Even his children won’t weep. I see your future -- your round legs ground up, your tin skin punctured, little wood-burners installed for cooking, smoke stacks jutting out like broken arms. Shelter for the homeless! After all, we are a practical people.