Philosophers of the Dump Run
—For my daughter India
Remember those Saturday mornings when
We drove the week’s garbage to the landfill
In the clunker you called Funky Chicken,
Big old Pontiac, valiant stench-mobile,
Perfume of rotting fruit and coffee grinds
Hanging in the air throughout the day?
And how the odor barely crossed our minds
As we puzzled out, laughing all the way,
What if the sky was green instead of blue?
Why can’t a rhinoceros blow its horn?
Wouldn’t you like to swim in a drop of dew?
Can a pantheist find God in a can of corn?
Oh to be back in that stinky car again
When all the world was magic and you were ten.
by Tad Tuleja
Editor’s Note: Any sonnet that rhymes “landfill” with “mobile” and uses the term “Funky Chicken” deserves airtime.