In the name of convenience
we deaden our senses
far from the basic elements
from which life rises
from this dusty, musty earth—
lost touch with old ways
of believing and seeing things
intrinsic to the spirit.
Yet we acquiesce to custom
and anonymity, bow
to technology more fallible
than a man’s word, or
become slaves and addicts
to selfish notions
where the lazy work the hardest.
A skinny but energetic Hispanic
calls me ‘Boss’ before I step out
into the concrete chute of the Ford garage,
hackneyed patronage I ignore while urgently
scanning the lead-up for a familiar face
in a frightening blur of new ownership—
almost forgetting the smog check I came for,
and an upfront inspection for the cause
and cost to repair the feed truck’s
St. Vitus tap dance on the asphalt
at speeds over thirty after a life
on 4-wheel drive dirt, loaded
with hay or towing a gooseneck. Time
for maintenance for the unretired—
Temple Grandin knows I need a hug.
Somehow, all the smart men forgot
that the only measure of our health is not
GROWTH, that maintenance of the body
is not only necessary, but creates jobs.
It is arrogance, of course, that manifest
DESTINY, that old code of the West
to build another somewhere else, appears
prosperous as the old digs crumble. It is a
GAME, these graphs and long equations
plugged with values damn few share.
There’s plenty of work everywhere you
LOOK! Why make repairs disastrous?