I'm a container
I should be filled with stuff
Riding the seas
or the rails
traveling everywhere all over the world
Steel sides, all six of them
I keep things in, not out
But somehow my life has changed
I'm stuck in the mud
my friends enslaved with me
piled two and three high
Pushed into an inside out
containment our goal
I mean even those of us who retire
are still in places where we hold things
As a home
As an office
True to our purpose
protecting the stuff inside
All I am now is a
line in the sand or on a rock
even where water laps from
a river wide
Arizona on one side
smug and safe
Mexico on the other
yearning and scheming
I'm not allowed movement
To take dreams between
Haves and have nots
Will it be that way forever?
No point in being awake
nothing new to see
Wake my heart
when there something
for me do
Contents of my Purpose
So now I'm the illegal
not of my doing
hot, dusty and empty.
How dare you judge me
by your prejudiced eye
of my exterior
instead of looking
into the contents of my purpose?
I live on the sea—tossed back and forth,
the steady sway beneath me—
the salty air a sweet reminder that I am home—
You should have seen me then! I was magnificent! I had a purpose and a reason!
the people— they used me— which should‘ve been done—
but instead they left me here. To decay— to rot— away from my home…
they don’t understand that I want to go home— to the swaying of the ground, filled to the brim with matters of importance—
But they put me in a dark truck… I was sure it was just another delivery—
but they left me here.
they came back— but it wasn’t the ones who put me here— it was someone different. They took me away and dumped me with other unwanted boxes and bags.
then they left.
i still sit here—my new friends do not keep me company as my old did— and I long to see my home again.
just one last time—before I become too old—
and I’ll always wonder— why?
Carrier or Barrier
This is an outrage.
I should be cruising the open ocean with my container friends, on a grand transport vessel. I am sure this is not my true purpose, it simply can't be.
At least it is for a good cause. I appear to be on the border of two nations, "countries" as the Little People call them. The side I am able to see is called Arizona, and they sure do love their guns over here. I always see groups of these people walking right past me, crossing The Border which I am evidently a part of. I can't understand some of the words they use. Something about immagrans, and protecting Arizona from "those varmints". I'm not sure what any of it means but it doesn't sound friendly.
I have come to the conclusion that the country of Arizona is at war. I wish so badly I could see what happens after these dangerous people cross The Border. I hear such an awful commotion whenever they see those immagrans. Their guns make such loud bangs and zips, as if little explosions are going off left and right. They don't hurt when they hit me, and I know it isn't on purpose.
It has been nearly 2 years now and this war is at its peak. I have been given reinforcements, probably more containers, but I still cannot see them. I have sunk into the sand now, about a foot by my judgement. I seem to be staying here for a long, long time.
I still dream about the day when I can finally fulfill my purpose, and cruise the seven seas as the greatest shipping container out there.
But at least I'm being used for a good cause.
I think I will not last long.
There is a crack in one of my walls: a part of carcass rusted away, making a narrow hole in my square steel belly. Winds have windened it a little.
There have been few migrant incidents since I was installed. The sun heats the ground mercilessly; the patrol who drive acroos the area are lazy, somber and silent; my nine-foot high steel walls have become a subtle shelter for yellowish grass and small bushes - the only greenery to be found in this corner of the world.
Yesterday, however, I had a visitor. When a silhouette of a man appeared in the distance against the blue sky, I was sure he came to attempt border crossing. I was as sure that he would fail, for everyone of them did.
But he was a painter. His being an artist could be easily recognised from his paint-stained coat and a stack of carboard-alike thick papers under his arm. He was tall. He went closer and hid under my wall in my shadow.
Then the man took the paintbrushes and a bottle of water from his bag and started. He took a long look of the scenery before him, making drafts in his mind, and then went painting on one of the sheets. He painted with cheap waterbased ink, those I used to carry in my belly a hundred times before I was dropped here and abandoned. I knew the label and the colors perfectly.
Half an hour later, I faced his finished work; I was amazed at how it matched the very soul of the desert, having spent more that two years here myself. The artist stepped back (as much as the wall behind allowed) and bowed his head to the side, examining the picture. Then he turned, made an unsatisfied expression, looked once more, and put the painting into the crack accurately. He left, finally, and hurried through the desert not to be arrested by the patrol.
I heard today from a young police officer that the President intends to demolish the improvised fortified barrier. If so, when they come to scrap me, they will find a rust-sided crack and a beautifil picture inside.