My Local Burning
If it feels and looks like racing,
And crashes, hallelujah, like racing,
Then it's World War III all right.
Hapless, uninspired civvies of all ages
Ducking behind dumpsters. To rake them
Is less than lame, even with the massive
Ordnance up your dead mama’s ass.
When this endless ride's finally history,
You can return and camp fire inside her
Ample back hatch, and stare back down
The 12-lane highway of your combustion.
Gazebos on astro lawns, incinerated firs.
These explosions are so surprisingly realistic,
When I saw my local burning, I almost cried.