What Friday sloucheth toward us?

Wide open spaces

sprawling out on suburban places

with auto-power its enabling basis:

that’s the fossil fuel game

that climate-bangers insist we blame

for dragging earth into carbon-cluded shame.

 

The dead, recycled dinosaur

now pumped up from some ancient shore

soon supplies yon stripmall store

with miles of aisles of essential stuff–

piles of styles that are more than enough

to transform this world to soft, from what was rough.

 

So far we’ve come from them rugged days

when grampa’s calloused hands found ways

to plow the prairies, while cattle graze.

And yet, somewhere in the world today

a farmer still drives the beast; he plows all day.

But here, strewn-out drivers glide away

 

from the greening world as once we knew it.

This fair and fertile land–we now eschew it;

now we transform it, as in olden days we grew it.

Yea, our trend-setting charged-up, superstore

that drive consumption from shore to shore–

so soon replays the dinosaur.

 

Glass Chimera

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