JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

I still cannot believe it

these huge creatures

tall as buildings

thundering in ground shaking armies

pea brains driving tanks

snapping, snorting, slashing

across the plains of Colorado, Patagonia

everywhere we pygmies like to perform today

our Lego and anthill routines

staring at the replicas in glass walled museums,

glossy National Geographic pages

 

We who have built a spindly existence

domes and wires, pipes and cogwheels

of our paper-thin bamboo and matchstick world

who beat our puny chests in pride

call ourselves masters of history

 

So unaware, as they were

that somewhere out in space

a mighty hand holding a rag

of poisoned cotton waste

is mopping its way across the sky

to wipe the planet clean of everything

 

Fifty million years

gone in a smoke-filled morning