THE BUZZARD AND THE CHEVROLET

THE BUZZARD AND THE CHEVROLET



Before this desert cooled she must have scorched the feet of beasts
And drove God’s creatures underground from Phoebus’s cruel eyes
If others she had sent to live in exile neath the rocks
Then others wisdom filled ascended up into the skies.


The hand of time has simmered her though she still beats with fire
For those who’ve tried to conquer her, the buzzard knows their bones
She spread that yellow skirt of hers upon the fertile earth
To find mercy within her is to squeeze the blood from stones.


The demon, dead eyed, tombstone buzzard sights a distant dot
All shimmering in petroleum haze, all parched and cooked and bashed
The long chalk line up which it climbs is just as feeble as
Itself, the 57 Chevrolet about to crash


Its dusty bonnet concertinas at a road side rock
That belts the smoke of its grill with such a sudden stop
Its radiator hisses like a cobra’s dying gasp
Its days of poppy red and gleaming chrome have breathed their last


No more “Jim Bob” white wore tires or cruising down on fifth
No more high school sweetheart dates or back seat “Making out”
No more playing chicken by the “Drive in” near the cliff
The buzzard circles closer as the driver staggers out.


He stands then reels and falters and then falls as if to pray
Kneeling in the glistening kiln he parts with light of day
His full and heavy head of hair lays point Blanc in the sand
His very last expression is a spasm in his hand.


She glides and stares with scrutiny at he her feast and find
Majestic, regal, enigmatic, stream line shaped she dives
And hacks into the cooking corpse for now its time to dine
The buzzard and the Chevrolet’s fait now have been entwined.

TIM SANSOM APRIL 1999