The great, thundering, two-ton beasts
crested the hill beside where we played.
They trumpeted, roared, and hissed,
passing noxious gases as they ran,
by ones or twos, in packs,
some grey, some white, some brown.

“Heffalump! Heffalump!” we cried
in mock terror, and ran barefoot
in search of a place to hide
till the hideous creatures
had trundled over the next hill,
metal hearts beating,
tires whining, exhaust pipes farting.

Today, we ride over hill and plain,
surrounded by these beasts,
looking out at the road ahead
through their eyes, from inside.
Hands gripping the wheel tightly,
feet pumping the pedals,
we imagine we are in control,
when actually
we have been eaten by heffalumps.


This entry was posted in poetry, the human condition and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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