A squeal of brakes. <br />Or is it a birth cry? <br />And here we are, hung out over the dead drop <br />Uncle, pants factory Fatso, millionaire. <br />And you out cold beside me in your chair. <br /> <br />The wheels, two rubber grubs, bite their sweet tails. <br />Is that Spain down there? <br />Red and yellow, two passionate hot metals <br />Writhing and sighing, what sort of a scenery is it? <br />It isn't England, it isn't France, it isn't Ireland. <br /> <br />It's violent. We're here on a visit, <br />With a goddam baby screaming off somewhere. <br />There's always a bloody baby in the air. <br />I'd call it a sunset, but <br />Whoever heard a sunset yowl like that? <br /> <br />You are sunk in your seven chins, still as a ham. <br />Who do you think I am, <br />Uncle, uncle? <br />Sad Hamlet, with a knife? <br />Where do you stash your life? <br /> <br />Is it a penny, a pearl— <br />Your soul, your soul? <br />I'll carry it off like a rich pretty girl, <br />Simply open the door and step out of the car <br />And live in Gibraltar on air, on air.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stopped-dead/
