I try to hold all of them, those pushy,
beastly lumps. “It’s just part of the job, comes with the territory,”
learned that early on. At first it
was wonderful! In my
mixing bowl.
They poured me into the
welcoming arms of
my foundation. I was so pretty, oh to be black! Carbon, ebony,
midnight, onyx,
smoke. And then painted on like a canvas. Beautiful lines! Stretched all the way down
me.
I got to learn what the circles meant, and why the
collided drawings were important. But before I was
even finished-
paw prints! This son of a whore mutt swerving into me, no—I am not
finished. There’s plenty of others like me—it,
it,
was all over? My lines were over.
Paint smeared, sharp metal scraping
over me. And the weight—I was naïve
to believe the signs would protect
me. More and more, every day, they load. They speed—hit my elbows
and knees. Curses, sirens,
let me have my say. There are plenty enough of them.
But one of me. I am needed, without contest I am to be valued, but day
after day I am trodden. I am broken and
chipped. Winter, summer, spring—band aid after
band aid, they pretend they care. What a,
what a,
feeble, useless gesture to repaint over my scars, I’ll never
be pretty again. I look
forward to the day I become a
dust heap.
I envy that mound. You can’t crush gravel
any more.