Progress Report
Tar balls appear thirty miles
from my from my front door.
In the early morning and near dusk, the perfume
of pines–even the familiar rot of Louisiana summer–
are vanquished by the smell of oil. After so many
dispersant-soaked red eye mornings, after so many
cracked pelican eggs and broken promises,
after so many withheld respirators, crushed baby
birds, unsent paychecks, and daily reports
of shortcuts, flimflams, and hands passing cash–
as the coastline disappears
and people still begin conversations
with “Before Katrina…”–what we have
to show are tar balls. Rolling in the Rigolets
Pass, dangerously near Lake Pontchartrain,
souvenirs of the spill, detritus of lost hope,
thirty miles from my front door.
In the early morning and near dusk, the perfume
of pines–even the familiar rot of Louisiana summer–
are vanquished by the smell of oil. After so many
dispersant-soaked red eye mornings, after so many
cracked pelican eggs and broken promises,
after so many withheld respirators, crushed baby
birds, unsent paychecks, and daily reports
of shortcuts, flimflams, and hands passing cash–
as the coastline disappears
and people still begin conversations
with “Before Katrina…”–what we have
to show are tar balls. Rolling in the Rigolets
Pass, dangerously near Lake Pontchartrain,
souvenirs of the spill, detritus of lost hope,
thirty miles from my front door.
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