By: Sue Spirit
On some sorry butte in Montana
in the bake-crazed, glare-glazed September sun
I’m polishing you for all you’re worth,
scarfing my Swiss cheese on Wonder Bread
as I rub. With my Kozak cloth
I dust your mud-crusted flanks,
casualty of the Great Salt Desert.
Could such misfortune hurt you?
You’re such a baby. It’s your first big trip.
My first trip I was a sullen kid, eleven,
imprisoned in a puke-green Chevrolet
that choked and sputtered through the Rockies.
Now, twelve years later, I’m a driving queen
in the Fair Lane, in my Butterball,
fine and fat and roomy,
blushing flanks, no fins, 1960 all the way,
glove compartment crammed with Chuckles bars,
radio blaring “Twist and Shout.”
Dear Butterball, I love you so.
You’re mine, mine, mine, all mine.
I have learned in all things to be content.
I’ll shine your powdery cheeks,
wipe your salt-spattered tears,
caress your chubby curves,
keep you red, red, red, all red.