“A poem about the guy who designs blowout preventers.”
I often hold the key
to opening the brink.
All despair
for the deepest seas
and the darkest terror
I shall share.
The locks I made – hold,
until the oil takes it,
and bring the black to blue
and pain and sickness.
The keys I make,
rule the world,
but if the pressure builds,
and the gates open
then- we shall hope for blue
to fight the crudest black.