There’s a volcano in my Alaska, a Paris
in my mesa and the bulldog
at the wheel looks at me with her awful
eyes and says “Sandra, there’s no time for
a vinyasa, so skedaddle,” and in
dog paddling to the Eiffel Tower I see
the shenanigans of topography,
the loop-a-doop shooting stars crushing under their own weight,
outrageously obese men and women
strolling down main street, happy as
snapping fingers to the brain stem’s want, the penny
slots spitting rednecks as the song goes
“there’s a crater in my Moscow, a hickey
on my Himalaya, a quicksand pit
on my 9th Tokyo, a Yucatan on this meteor impact
more idiotic than the Patriot Act, more
ancy than Shay’s rebellion,” so drop a few
bouillon cubes in this verb
brimming stew and call it petroleum,
the new gold!, a wasp that flies
into the vehicle and makes you double over
the yellow lines for good measure.
This poem is by Sandra Simonds, author of Warsaw Bikini.
Published in Columbia Poetry Review
Republished by Verse Daily®
Photo by Deconstructtheworld via flickr
Robin Reagler 