by C.S. Fuqua
The irony will be those SUV shells,
littering parking lots
in a dusty desert
under skies depleted
by that woman,
plump fingers licked clean
on a mild spring day,
windows up, engine running
to keep the air cold,
a minute stretching into an hour,
warnings everywhere,
from TV to radio to magazines,
not to mention the raging storms,
the droughts, and rising tides.
Obviously, Darwin had it wrong.
Evolution has nothing to do with the fittest,
but everything to do with selfish, consuming vanity.
The storm gathers,
but the bitch is cool,
her baby soon to college,
both oblivious, confident,
as trees wither, die,
her car trembling in the wind.