it was an afternoon—
i am in my car driving home from work
the usual radio tunes filling my six-year-old car
my hands gripped around the steering wheel
as i look out the auburn sky
waiting for the traffic light to turn green.
humming,
i breathe out and think,
the setting of the sun is medicine
but somewhere west, thick black smoke
catches my eye
perhaps from a factory
where knuckles turn calloused
and nailbeds blacken with coal
and children come home with a few pieces of copper in their palms
what has man done
and what has man made of man
when tar and cigar
and the heat of the unventilated factory
is all that fills their lungs?
as the traffic light turns green
and cars whiz past me,
the black smoke rises higher and higher
covering the red-orange sun
as if coming before God saying,
i am sorry
i am sorry
for man has made a god of me.