CARGO
The Old Men saw them. Back in the Good Times
buried under the Mountain. The BMWs faster than deer,
the Sony Walkmans powerful of secret drumming,
the sky houses, the water horses. Look. There, on the door,
with three blades. That was called Propeller. Those things made
the sky houses fly. All there. Under the Mountain.
The harvest’s in, meager it was. Corn from Indian seeds,
Mormon beans, pumpkins from the witches
that lived in the Good Times. Pipeweed. Listen. Under the rubble
they buried Hybrid Seeds, Marlboro smoke. There for the digging.
We’ve gathered, bathed in the river, tied the ancient neckties
in the knots of power, the four-in-hand, the Windsor,
over our sunburned shoulders, sent each other resumés,
circumcised the boys into the MBA Society,
and picked the first ceremonial stone from the rubble
in the tunnel beyond the propeller. We who will not see
the digging completed, must each put our hands to it. Listen.
I have seen in Burnt Willow Creek, running from the Mountain
since the earthquake, glowing blue deep in the pools, the Cargo.
-
Author:
Robert Southwick Richmond (
Offline) - Published: January 12th, 2021 15:41
- Comment from author about the poem: Mid 1980s. (Anybody remember Sony Walkmans?) Imagining an ignorant future generation cargo cult, about to dig up a nuclear waste repository. Glowing blue: the Cherenkov radiation of underwater radioactive material.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
Offline)
Comments2
Nice picture of a post apocalyptic world there. Yor mean noone, no sliver of information anywhere, gave a clue that this glow might be dangerous?
I think I'd like to stay this side of the Big Disaster, thanks.
I envision a future world where everyone has either an MBA or a law degree, and people make a living by sending each other resumés and suing each other. The generation or two after that is the world I envisioned in the poem.
Your world preceding the big wallop seems entirely feasible - and the easiest way to send everyone crazy. Yep - all makes perfect sense........
Good write Robert.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.