Two by Crawdad Nelson
I always seem to find myself
Pushing
a half-ton truck loaded with useless crap
belonging to other people
uphill, backward,
on gravel if I expected pavement,
on mud if I'm wearing good shoes,
and expected to show up looking halfway respectable
for once
the truck not only has brakes
that pinch and get stuck,
it has a dead battery;
but even if it started,
it is outta gas,
and even if it ran,
it has bald retreads coming
off in chunks, the lights are unsafe,
the front end shimmies
the rear end flexes,
the joints are unsound
and the overall prognosis is doubtful;
the upturned aquarium
splashes
a fluid, composed of what became of something
that once lived
in vile circumstances
at the bottom of a glass box,
obscene and perhaps poisonous,
all over my shoulder
and my head, splashing my hat off
in a revolting, anonymous mishap
as I continue to push,
alone, backwards, uphill, blinded
by a very romantic sunset
shining
on the happy fuckers
in the nice cars
parked
where the river chews dollar signs
into raw sand.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Firepower
The moonlight over Albion,
sturdy hill above the sea;
pearls as they sink.
The milk-cow's bright expression
over the swinging gate:
she came home,
the high-wire bridge mourns
a mean couple of verses, trucks in the rain,
another dead soldier.