The Driver

He should’ve stopped and let us search him.

He shouldn’t have been driving that truck.

He was coming to feed the soldiers.

He is probably a soldier too, they say.

So,

Students,

Factory workers,

An old couple on their nightly stroll,

Blew up his tires,

Dragged him up the bridge,

Beat him against the rails,

Dropped him fifty feet onto concrete,

Then sliced his belly to look like

A clown holding deflated toy-balloons.

And it took

A box of matches

To light him up.

The Truck

High humidity, dirty wind, and diesel fuel

Transform the summer air into violent soup.

Shoppers gather around the burned truck,

Bending to pick up its broken freight:

Thirty-eight crates of fire-damaged

Bok choys. They grin self-satisfied

As they peel back the brown leaves,

Stuffing the translucent cores into bags.

Children chew them on the spot. Crunch.

They will go to the market another time.