Roos looking in the direction of the generator
as it grinds and spews fumes are either
bewildered or disdainful. They keep a distance
yet can’t avoid its pursuit. Sugar ants —
so solitary in their foraging —
gather and turn antennae away
from the ‘doom-doom-doom’ vibration
trying to reconfigure their cosmos.
Catullus would write withering
invective in hendecasyllables
such that the operator would find the shit
he’s churning out stuck to his hands.
Me? — well, teeth on edge, I let Babes
in Toyland operate as painkillers,
the irony not enough or at least
barely enough to save anything. A pair
of massive crows exiting the scene
might or might not agree, escaping
on wings of carbon monoxide,
a bumpy ride over the rapids.
.
John Kinsella
.