Deucalion

While driving passed the Larry Uteck exit
I spy a rising column of smoke stabbing
it’s way upwards over the tree tops.  I do
a double take as I see the mushroom cloud
has unfolded like an umbrella over Halifax.
I struggle to reconcile what I know to be
impossible with what my eyes see.  It’s only
later, once I’ve gotten closer, that I realize
the smoke is coming from the candy-cane
smoke stacks in Dartmouth, belching their
smoggy waste into the cold mid-day air.
But the image shakes me still.
 
I am reminded of Victor Frankenstein.  His ambition
birthed a monster that he couldn’t take back.
Shelley had another title in mind for
her famous work.  The Modern Prometheus
still lives today, bringing fire that hiccups
haze into the air I breathe.  I am a child
of the Modern Prometheus.  So,
does that make me the monster?

I keep driving and turn onto Connaught
but suddenly all I can see are rising streams
of choking fog from car after car after
car.  And then my mind drifts up too
and crosses province after province, country
after country, seeing all the hundreds
of thousands of cars, each with its own little
fire whispering smog coated lullabies
to the Earth.  Prometheus brought us fire.
Frankenstein, like our parents, brought it
to life.  Now we are one and the same.  We are
the sons and daughters of the Modern Prometheus.
We are the monster.