I’d love to key your Hummer.
Sorry, no offense,
I mean, you’re probably someone
Who really hasn’t thought too much about
How big
Your car really is.

No, I’m not the type to key a car
Making a long deep cut into your door’s side
In the parking lot
Hidden from the bag boys
Who won’t see my design.
A parting of the waters
With chips of metal waves on either side of
A deep deep cut
Like the dried-up river beds
Of my planet’s future.

Not the type, really,
I always say please and thank you
And hate to make a scene about anything.
I abhor spectacles and traffic in guilt.
But when you pull up next to me at a light
I just want to walk up to your door
And drag you out
Pinning you down
Right there           on the street
      
        Sorry about your nails
       And your phone         that go flying as I grab your hair

What were you thinking, I’ll ask
When you ordered this beast
To run to the gym or mall
                                                Or even church
Plundering our reserves
Polluting our planet
Sending our children to walk the streets of Baghdad
To protect your right to drive
                                                    a Hummer.

Maybe it was the commercial
About the mother taking her son to his new school
The boy smug with pride to be seen
In the family car
Or the one about the wimp at the market
Intimidated by meat-eating machos
Standing in line,
Avenging his cojones
By reappearing-
In a Hummer                hoping to be seen.

Sorry, this is not me.
I’m normally not like this
I’d rather tip for poor service
Than complain
And have been known to tolerate abuse.

It’s just that I want my children to swim in a river one day
That’s not toxic
And I don’t want our sons to be blown up by more bombs
So you can drive
                               your Hummer.

When I finally let you leave
And watch you pull away
I know               you still won’t understand.
You’ll call your lawyer
And fume because not only did your tips get chipped
But you were late picking up the           children.