Motorway
A scratch appeared on the skin of the Earth,
Just too small to see,
About fifty miles long.
It soon filled up with a tarmac scab
And The Man saw it was...
Quick.
The Earth, however, was a bit pissed off.
“Mine”, said The Man.
“No,
Actually mine,” said the Earth,
Vigorously tossing grass and flowers
To claim at least
The central reservation.
“But you see”, said The Man,
“I dug it up,
I tamed the unruly rubble.
I made it straight
And I made it true
And flat and right,
With the tarmac laid correctly”.
“So it’s mine”.
But The Earth is biding her time.
A number of years -
Well, give or take a thousand or two -
And The Man will be gone.
No rush.