Chin Up, Oilman
by Belinda Roddie
Chin up, oilman: Your time to find gold
has reemerged on the hottest of days.
The orange goon thanks you for your patience
as he turns the stove dials up, and the planet
cooks like a well done Texas T-bone. Yep,
everyone's boned except for you, oilman.
You'll be drinking your treasure by the silver
goblet before too long. Celebrate with your
friends and wear the same stupid black cowboy
hat in honor of your new suicidal endeavors.
Because the creek waters are churning out
slick, unctuous curses, and the tribes are
all raising their fists in unison, and no amount
of hymns you sing from your little brown Bible
will redeem you from the disasters you plan
to cause for the sake of green sins swelling
in your festering pocket. Take a lady back
to the hotel room with you, oilman, after a night
at the steakhouse and casino. Once she's done
blowing you, she'll taste the petroleum, and
you'll have a hard time getting the same greasy
tang out of your own blustering, viscous mouth.