Rose Mary Boehm, 04/12

Dead machines

 

At night in the headlights
we see it at the entrance
to the dump, slightly off center:
the washing machine,
gleaming white in the dark,
invested with importance.

We pray that it grant us
success and everlasting life.
Until we find new gods.

On a field dusty with grey
we discover the burial grounds.
Tractors, diggers, generators…

Bow deep and worship
and grant us, this day,
our daily breath.

Promote. Poetry.
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