The SUVs drift along
highways and city streets
clad in shabby nylon flags
and decals or stickers
that exhort God to
bless America.

Part of a pastoral fantasy
like porcelain buckets at Versailles,
they rarely go off-road,
hot-house flowers
unable to thrive when moved
from the warm protection of garages.

Like addicts they return
again and again to the gas station.
The cap is loosened
the steely nozzle inserted
and the pumping begins.
Fill me up, I need it, I want it,
OOOO I gotta have it....
When the pump shuts off and
the nozzle is tucked away
they depart for a little while,
filled but never sated.

This poem first appeared in Triplopia.org.
Used here with the author's permission.