(found poem on pg. 2 of Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation)
The twists and turns, like James Bond
driving little vans from cavern to satellites,
the tracks that orbit the heart,
power millions of rowboats, a barbershop, and a cafeteria.
The men get tired of the King.
Every night a man winds past
the checkpoint, chain link, and barbed wire.
The deliveryman collects his Armageddon.
The whole continent entombed with comic books and Bibles,
future clues to our civilization,
crusts of red, white, and blue.