Even the cars in the parking lot are running:
A woman sits at the steering wheel
Of her SUV,
Window cracked,
Smoking a cigarette.
In the far corner of the lot,
The engine of the Dodge Charger
Is running, too,
But no one is visible:
The seat is tilted back,
The driver asleep.
He needs the engine to run
So he can be warm.
Everything is running.
All may not be revealed,
But certainly all will be replenished
From the inexhaustible
Horn of plenty
Laid before us.
Our lives, too,
Like our engines
And our dreams,
Our naps
And our cigarette breaks,
Will go on
Uninterrupted.
Even after we awake,
Even when
The cigarette
Lies crushed and smouldering
Beside the retention pond.
Our comfort is perpetual,
Our rest undisturbed.
When the last drop of oxygen
is absorbed into
The last lonely vessel.
Slow asphyxia
Is a small price to pay
For all the comfort
For which
We have poorly paid.
Up until then,
We will rot
At room temperature,
Assured of a perfectly
Comfortable
And eternal
Rest.
--Mr. Gobley
