"Highway to Hell"

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.