Your Own Winnebago

There's a volcano in my Alaska, a Paris
      in my mesa and the bulldog
at the wheel looks at me with her awful

eyes and says "Sandra, there's no time for
          a vinyasa, so skedaddle," and in
dog paddling to the Eiffel Tower I see

the shenanigans of topography,
the loop-a-doop shooting stars crushing under their own weight,
              outrageously obese men and women
strolling down main street, happy as
      snapping fingers to the brain stem's want, the penny
slots spitting rednecks as the song goes

"there's a crater in my Moscow, a hickey
      on my Himalaya, a quicksand pit
on my 9th Tokyo, a Yucatan on this meteor impact

more idiotic than the Patriot Act, more
    ancy than Shay's rebellion," so drop a few
bouillon cubes in this verb

brimming stew and call it petroleum,
    the new gold!, a wasp that flies
into the vehicle and makes you double over
the yellow lines for good measure.

Copyright © 2009 Sandra Simonds All rights reserved
from Columbia Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission