Africa Box rattling, rolling
dirt-dried ruckus; regardless,
levitating over the impassable,
renegade rear-wheel drive.
And scorching heat, heart-heat,
from real driving wind,
forcing the face backwards:
the direction of exhausted
plumes careening indistinct,
shunning road and rail and rock,
riveting together the purposeful
and the beautiful and the battered
ingenious chaos engine;
submerged or conflagrant
or straining to summit Suswa
or some more sensible objective,
it matters not to the
Africa Box, rolling, rattling.