Black Oil
The oil,
the thick black goo of man
is everywhere.
Littering the sand,
turning white to black
and green to brown.
Pooling in the most remote of marshes.
Hiding in reeds and grasses.
The pelicans’ beaks drip with it.
They flutter in the thick black and drown
as if someone had coated them with melted chocolate.
They are innocents,
incapable of understanding how their world has changed,
forever.
They are incapable of flying somewhere else and
can not mentally understand the danger in front of them
when they land upon the water.
How sick I feel when I see them on T.V. night after night.
How terribly sick
it all is,
with no end in sight.
Just that vomiting thing
miles below the surface
never taking a break,
or slowing down,
and man’s futile attempts to stop what they created.
When will we learn?
We who crave oil
have created our own monster.
I think of Pensacola and the perfect white sand beaches I walked upon
last winter.
How pristine they were,
like the finest sugar.
I fear I will never be able to see them that white again.
But forget me, I can get in a car and drive away.
I can fly to somewhere that isn’t ruined.
What about the creatures beneath the sea?
Where do they go now that we have ruined the only home they have?
They can’t suddenly grow feet and walk upon the shore carrying signs of protest,
although I’m sure they’d like to.
There is nothing they can do
but slowly die beneath the surface
and wash ashore,
like trash.
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