Junkyard’s Protest

By Sean Bedell

I sit upon the road the hard black asphalt
is hot and burns my buttocks through denim
cars whizz by drivers scream “you’re crazy!”
and “get the fuck off the road!”
and they have it right
i sit and bake in the hot sun
the black blisters my ass; heat ripples up in waves
the horns make me want to cover my ears and scream
and the exhaust makes me high

In the middle of the intersection the light turns from yellow to red
and finally to green – brakes screech
which instills my spirit with a sense of quiet…
a quietus shall I make?

I take a smoke out of my pocket and light it in defiance
the cops don’t like that
they twitch, they don’t like hands that reach inside of pockets

I sit beneath the engines as they pant and tick out of tune
i hear the cold metallic click aimed at me
the cops say nothing; they must be afraid

I feel like Gandhi so i take off my shirt and crave salt
the cops don’t like that either
i feel like that kid in Tiananmen Square
except he stood for something and i sit for nothing
i sit and bake on black pavement
with a yellow stripe down the middle

I wish i had decorated myself for the occasion
i could have dressed the part
i never thought it that far ahead
i could have painted a yellow stripe from my forehead to my nuts

After they shout “hands up!”
and “don’t move motherfucker!”
will they give me a bag of ice
to sit on while they investigate
all the true reasons?

 

Sean Bedell lives and writes on the eastern shore of Nova Scotia. He makes frequent forays into New England and is a member of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance. He has had numerous pieces published in literary journals, and he alternates between writing with a fountain pen and a tablet.

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