Gas for the multitudes

Gas for the multitudes
We were all geared up for this gig,
don’t get me wrong, it’s true:
loyalty, guts, & Diner’s Club cards
the Boss demanded of his crew

to cover, you know, expenses for the road:
sinkers, felt-tipped pens, voltage meters,
cottonseed oil, Argo starch, bicycle chains
rabbit-skin glue, & cans of skeeter

spray (mustn’t forget the skeeter spray)
all grist, you might say, for the millstone
blocks of time dragging behind, unseen
but not forgotten, like the ancient bones

un-ignorable, that’s what they are, the nut
of it, the core, the unspeakable magma of it
that held us back, heavier than air
like some gas bag igniting

the inflammatory end to all our schemes
where Courthouse Road meets the beach.

Do we know when this will reach the end?

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