Prose Poem: Which way to Sego?

 

If only North Dakota were closer,

I could walk to it.

Breathe in that scent of watchful waiting;

Hear the quiet hum of icicles fighting the sun.

If only I could get to North Dakota tonight --

I feel certain someone would have a piece of

cud for me to thoughtfully chew on

for the rest of my life.

And people would nod at me,

in a friendly manner,

and not talk very much.

But no -- I'm stuck way out here between 

leering mountain ranges;

a victim of encroaching prosperity, surrounded by

cunning do-gooders who want to help me

improve myself.

They never stop talking.

They give me water with special

molecules in it.

Ancient inedible grains 

that go down like gravel.

They don't even stop talking to eat.

When I look at them, all I see

is Doris Day.

When I look deeper, all I see

are plastic bags floating in the wind.

They tease me incessantly

to invest in cyber widgets;

they tell me my money will grow

exponentially. 

I don't even know what

'exponentially' means.

They want to lave me in essential oils.

Take me into salt caves.

Cure my malaise with a perky smile

and a positive attitude.

They attack my cherished melancholy

like committed terrorists.

If I can't reach North Dakota,

maybe I can get to a western 

ghost town.

Sit silently on a hill of mine tailings.

Immerse myself in the fumes

of underground coal fires.

Let my veins fill with alkali. 

Which way to Sego, kind sir?

And don't come near me with that

skin moisturizer!