By Sacha Husband, Contributor
Landmarks lose their meaning,
Steam rise upon the steaming,
What is that I thought I saw?
We’re nowhere, no, no, no,
Distant hours, no landmark days,
Feeding packs of wayward strays,
Contemplate the days untold,
All of us, the bleak, meek, bold,
Our own minds goad and thus they hinder,
To plant our trees in burnt-down tinder,
A new plug in, a new one grabbed,
“Repeat! Repeat! Repeat, McNab!”
“This is all I’ll plant today.”
“Not if I have more to say!”
“My hands are bled, my feet are worn,
my skin is baked, my clothes are torn,
what if I have lost my power?”
“Then you shall break upon the hour,
then take some trees, and plant some more!”
“Can’t I rest upon the shore,
of this dirt road no car can reach,
with disparate semblance to a beach,
my only refuge in this stark land?”
“No, McNab! Now, take your hand,
and thrust more trees into the ground,
10 and a half sand, now pound, pound, pound!”
“Of a four-day shift, I pound the first three,
O God of Planting, please have mercy,
any chance you spare some luck?”
“Fine, indulge: Five O’Clock Fuck!”
“The day is over, now what happens?”
“Now you count your daily stipends,
all your stickers, your value, your worth,
all your energy now a dearth,
clean your lunch from the tupper,
and wash your hands before your supper,
then sleep McNab, and again join me!”
“O God of Planting, why do I love thee?”
