Sea mist came rolling obscuring the sad sight of stranded
cars, no oil, no gas buy a Cadillac for a song; buses are
still on the road, long queues and fistfights and electric
scooters are now too expensive for the ordinary punter.
A man upland is now rich selling mules and donkeys,
when he started out ten years ago people laughed, what
a silly man; his brother, who used to be a cook, sells hand
drawn carts. The army, the president and his merry men,
all experienced riders, have confiscated all the horses.
Hollywood has stopped making cowboy and Indian movies.
This brittle western economy, we saw it coming,
but we continued to dance on the roof of SUV's.
In the mist I can just make out a clan of Gypsies
making their ponderous way across town,
carts drawn by tiny horses with elegant
legs, dogs and laughing children, for them our collapse
means nothing they have always been poor, now they are