Mark Bibbins
POEMS
 

No Lot Lizards


December and the leaves fell more
out of habit than anything else.
I would let things spoil, I would wake up

in Baltimore wearing reflective pants,
an asbestos apron. We like your style, they said,
especially that welding mask—but tell us this:

What is the sound of Two Gals Trucking?

Another megamall is rising out of broken
earth and dirt; the engineers sprawl by the highway,

crooning one more chorus of “I’ll Skip Miami”
around the Gatorade cooler. The cranes
over Chesapeake Bay await their instructions, high

in the unrepentant opalescent smog. People queue up
outside factories, wowed by specialty metals. An acid
rain wets their faces but they don’t mind

because they read on the Net that it’s a good
exfoliant. So goodbye pollen, goodbye spores—
here come the fetching weathermen, giving us what for.

   
   
   

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