Metaldom *

Let’s settle this: you’ll never be
General Motors
nor will I ever be García Lorca. 

You’ll continue blotching these neighborhoods
with your smoke, while I will continue pounding
out poems on this keyboard. 

Hurricanes will come and go.
The buses, more ramshackle,
will rattle across Independence.
The All-Ya’-Can-Eat Chinese buffets will multiply.
The secondhand stores.
The payday loans.
The evangelical churches. 

Where there was a house
they will raise a building.
Where there was a park or baseball diamond,
they will plant a supermarket, low income
housing, a motel. 

Those of us who once skipped
down the street bouncing a ball,
will strut the sidewalk, wielding a pistol. 

When the ambulance siren
disturbs our sleep, we’ll clutch our chests
to assure ourselves we’re safe and sound. 

Metaldom: How many Toyotas, how many Mazdas,
how many Daihatsus,
will you sacrifice tonight?

Just like the strophes
from an Epic Greek Poem
your column of smoke rises before the sea
to appease the Gods,
but the Gods are departed,
leaving no forwarding address. 

Metaldom, in the year 2060 you will be a Five Star Hotel,
and I will be an old crank
in a wheelchair,
reciting verses on Sundays
and holidays. 

Remember: you’ll never be General Motors
nor will I ever be García Lorca. 

 
* A smelting factory in Santo Domingo.