we’re not truckin’ around
upon the dining table of the Invader
there were those who thought
that they could simply mimic creation
and plough through this land
inventive
but blindfolded
—where’d ya get ya license!
and the bitumen vine of wandering impetus
drove right through the bora-ring
and knocked our phone off the hook
forever
forcing us to stand out on the shoulder of the road
looking for a lift,
even though
we weren’t really lusting
that 18-wheeler of a lifestyle
driving into the next millennium
we’ve been too used
to feeling a kinship
with the discarded and shredded
black pieces of truck tire
on the fringes of the big road
us ‘damper-feet’ may just pull up a seat on the shoulder
watch
and observe
how you lead-foots fend for yourselves
as the surfers twist before the white squall ahead
the encroaching absalom before us all