Wakenator

I’ve been a man for which there are tools

wrenched him into working harder, more time

away from family, drunk with clients until

he’s putting the price of a recent DUI

on a company expense report. That’s me,

as if I saw the tools first as a child then

cupped body parts, or strapped arms or

legs or fingers into immobility, scarred up

my mouth, distorted my eyes with sticks

so that one day I’d be a man that fit

the machine. My strategy succeeded

until I could no longer dream. A big help

in keeping myself alone and streamlined

to get the job done, to take things away,

accumulate, get a ski boat and a beer

on a July afternoon, with a woman yelling,

“Hit it,” and I accelerate over water

faster than any squall or lake bird.

Then, God hurricaned Ponchartrain.

I did OK, but the house got bruised

bad, like it had been in a fight, juice

gone right away, no real news for days,

and when I went to check on Wakenator

in the storage yard 10 miles south,

there was nothing but orphan homes,

unmoored, crashed, pale, dead.

When I drove to the grocery store

to post a picture of my boat in case

anybody saw it somewhere, the wall

was covered in people’s faces, xeroxed

photos of folks, disappeared by water

or the chaos, paper flapping away,

concrete sprouting 100 frantic wings.

So much gone it looked like prophecy.

I'm damaged much as I ever wanted:

I know it’s guys like me hold the lever

and the key. I did this. Not the rain.

Not the levee. Just the cogs I ride.

And so, I found what I was fitted for.

Perdition. Gears grinding perdition

until we can only guess at the number

of corpses. I've got to pry my way out.

Find someone in the wild. Mimic human.