Wasted motion

Like neon words in
a small town overhung
with phosphate dust,
yellow and red glints
in the setting sun
leave an iridescent smudge.

A slow down on the way
to more exciting places,
where poverty forges
a harsher edge against a skyline
of glittering high rises;
immaculately manicured
hands dig into pockets of
cybernetic gratification.

Along the road -
past fields of bent backs
whose red-stained fingers
move along the endless rows
of agricultural investment -
plucking picking packing;
something is glimpsed in
the rear view mirror, tailing.

A dark sigh clattering from
an empty grave, love blows
through this heart undisguised
and makes a lonely sound.
Reaching for something
yet undreamed -
a fish trying to justify
why it swims upstream;
ends up half-eaten, pawed over,
washed up on the rocky bank.


© 2002 Melissa Songer