The oily bird gets nada

Her feathers, white down a second ago
slick with black musk and car shop smell now
feet sticking to the mud, new water
smell sinking up her nose and into my gas tank

Somehow, the tree huggers cried out loud to the sky
the gurgling hole bubbling over with black gold
drowning out their voices
without the help of government and corporate helicopters
buzzing back and forth, busy with busy-ness

Rough seas bouncing yellow booms in jest
laughing at the people in the choppers
as they lay their heads down and try to sleep
knowing what their yes men helped them ignore
for so long

Blessings come in oily packages shaped like
the Exxon Valdez, but no one wants to open them up
the stink and the guilt penetrate through walls and consciences
like the smell of nail polish remover on a fluffy white cotton ball

I fill up my tank and think $2.85 is a lot for a gallon of fluid
that I will use to scoot myself around town for the next few days
tears drop onto my hand holding the nozzle as the actual cost
flys through my mind like a Baby Brown Pelican covered in
thick, black crude.

A prayer drips from my lips for us. Wakey, wakey. It's time to wake up.
I say as millions of hands slap the snooze button instead.

Annie Quicksilver
5/1/2010