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About This Poem
Contrails
The contrails scar the morning sky
like cicatrix’s on a slaves back.
I sit and watch them multiply:
white insidious, noxious tracks
that linger long among the clouds
spreading lethal depositions
never knowing their whereabouts’
but knowing their compositions;
And when the clouds begin to rain
down (acid precipitation)
it’s simple then to ascertain
Man’s faulty preconceived notion:
That they are harmless condensates;
This is supposed to vindicate?
Meanwhile, a drizzle
began quietly falling
upon fragile earth.
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