A Ford Falcon lies flat
in the library parking lot, sandwiched
between a Lexus and BMW, waiting
to be eaten by wealthier entrees into the job
market. Impoverished fenders are bronzed with rust. Holey
door panels give it grace and air. The rear window is covered
with plastic sheeting, and the driver’s seat-cushion
is decorated with images of steaming coffee pots.
Allergy remedies on the dash treat dusty lungs
and two boxes of Preparation H indicate
a troubled exhaust system. Only the gods know
this transmission has teeth, but the specter of engine
failure is omnipresent. The car’s unseen driver
is the latest in a serial adventure where
the moon lights the past, and darkness
hides the future.
Preamble to Poverty
The united men, women, children
of America federate and reserve
that the people take note
of legal tender, that enrichment
of Corporations is united
in the god they trust for tax privileges
protected in the belly of a whale
of an off-shore job, shrouded in the fog
of fake americas in Antigua, Cayman
Islands, Grenada, and Santa Lucia.
no jobs, no workers, no free lunch
in American schools.
stars and stripes forever.
—Charles Trimberger, Wauwatosa, WI