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Poem

Your large stuffed synthetic sack
and the aching bones and muscles
that strain against the pain
of a planet that you're sure must hate you,
are sure that you hate it too.
Your wheels are just large enough
to allow the suicidal stride
of the dire recycler's chariot
which may really be suicidal or worse,
but what, for you, is better ?
Your muscles and bones so busy
that they don't even know the pain,
your chariot wheels so quick and slow
that they don't know what will be,
assuming that anything may be.
Your last fair job was an unfair chance
and your bosses and their trucks are forgotten,
because the bitter angry man
in Tracking & Surveillance
found a reason for you to be fired.
Your last unfair job disintegrated too
and you no longer sit on the back of a pick-up
watching beautiful women and angry men
cutting the night or the morning in half
with cars that could pay a thousand funerals.
You die a thousand deaths.

13th October 2018

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