poem: MIRAGE by Paul Malécot

A roadside vulture,
atop a ravaged cactus,
with an expired snake in its claws,
victim of the Firestone’s tread,

Faithful Aztec innocents passed this way
long ago on their quest,
today, would they have mistakenly
built their miracle-city
on this barren tract;
U. S. (us) property
keep out!

A procession of steel towers, frozen pilgrims,
barbs the horizon,
in pursuit of the seven cities,
bearing gifts of power.

The asphalt umbilical sluice,
glazed in the distance,
empty —
but for the carcass,
an extinct species, Buick
it’s dyna-flow
permanently lurches
it’s death-throe,
having hallucinated that
this was the promised land.