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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|Publication:||War, Literature & The Arts|
|Date:||Jan 1, 2018|
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