Gravel groans beneath my old truck tires
driving slowly down this remote road
dust plumes rise like double pyres
coating roadside weeds with a gray load

All is a faded worn out green
from thunderstorms and summer sun
but here and there some gold is seen
on poplar tops above duff's dun

I cross a bridge with thick wood floor
above a creek that's nearly dry
with autumn rains it soon shall roar
beneath a cooler wind swept sky

A big burger and lots of fries
not the best in terms of healthy, you say.
But excuse me, did I ask?
A ride on the greasy side of life,
no doubt a dangerous delight.
But at its thought,
I’m Pavlov’s dog.
I’ll risk that beating by the great OZ,
doctor that is.
Dismissed as well
the sucking sound of shrinking arteries,
as without ceremony
I devour this
killer feast.

If you think they're greedy now
wait until we're face to face,
when all that's left of our burning world
is a sampling of the race.
Do you suppose they will change
or go down ever scheming,
never admitting they were the cause
of mankind's cleaning.

Never did mind
doing the washing,
and I always pitch in
when something needs doing.
I slip on my work clothes
strap the tool belt on,
tie up my boots
there's work to be done.

Dogged is a Life

Real dogs don’t take their
shoes off at the door,
leave no personal footprints
on your pristine floor.
They slide through lives
like ancients on speed,
giving nothing, only sampling
to fulfil their need.

Their tales are never waged
to fit in any others suit,
but the tail always stands
tall with a solid root.
Never snarling unless a
snarl is so required,
in control, although they
at times seem wired.