Literally baking under an unforgiving sun, some have been on the march for two days already without water, food or direction from officials of where to go. Time ticks away, police shoot home movies of the new coastline, scattered rooftops imersed in tears from heaven. I begin to ponder who’s in charge as not a single dark skinned soul slowly dying on the highway, infant to elderly, has any idea of what direction leads to their next birthday – let alone a glass of water.
Hundreds if not thousands of heros occupy this foresaken stretch of asphalt deep south, with forelorn city-faces never before seen in such numbers on the picture box so often filled with anti-hero yak attack Wonder Bread with mayonase splattered all over like it was the only condiment in the whole wide world worth anyone’s time. Darfur screams in unison with Big Easy dehydration tonight, drops of sweat roll from noses to asphalt, dusty ground Iraq, and the feet of heros we’ll never hear word one about unless the spreadsheet our network suit studies tells a tale of how much folks like you and I might find it entertaining for a while.
Posted by Al Swearengen in Words