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Powder Blue.

 The poet Richard Hugo once told me
he wanted a Mercedes--
powder blue. I scoffed,
then thought of his arthritic knees,
blackened lungs, dysfunctional liver--
30 years of cigarettes and booze.
He'd fought the last World War,
worked 15 years at Boeing;
he deserved a nice ride.
That was 40 years ago. Today
I bought a BMW,
titanium paint, xenon headlights,
moonroof, 17 inch
alloy wheels.
What did I do
to deserve this? Was I born
at the right time, here
in North America--
far from Al Qaeda's caves,
mine-fields, hand-held missiles?
Don't I deserve to be scammed
by the venal salesman whose boss
pads the sticker with add-ons?
Wouldn't you like to vandalize my car,
gleaming in the driveway?
Say you were Arabic, pious
in your prayers to Allah,
your country run by
two-faced lackeys.
Wouldn't you love
to fly to America,
all expenses paid,
to place a plastic explosive
beneath the wheel of my car
and watch it blow
on the nightly news
me in it?

Ed Meek is author of Luck, short stories, and Spy Pond, poems. Book critic for The Arts Fuse and Digboston.

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Article Details
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Author:Meek, Ed
Publication:War, Literature & The Arts
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jan 1, 2018
Words:238
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