Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that’s how traders make their ill-gotten
gains. My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly. On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn’t in
the mood to play “follow the leader,” so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian cane fuel
and flashed their indicators, I ignored this depravity and
hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled up outside,
it had lost the kitchen-sink and was splattered in manure
of the long eared members of the horse family.
