The Beetles of N'Douci

The beetles of N'Douci bake upside down
In the courtyard by the truck stop.
Rhinoceros they are, four fingers long,
A quarter-moon horn, armored, ancient shell,
Appendages pedaling slowly at the sun.
Tumbled from the hibiscus shade, they won't
Escape sun nor eighteen-wheel Mack rigs
Rowed up at the weigh station by Marie's,
Nor fast Peugeots crammed with migrants
From the north, nor Land Rovers of whites
In tight khaki shorts and tinted glasses,
Who all stop to refresh at Chez Marie's.
The beetles' and the lumber rigs' entrance.
Trucks lurch rattling chained logs,
Mahogany, they say, ripped from the lush land
Sighing to lowly neighbors, and carted
In these cruel caravans to the coast.
And at the stop, the drivers of these rigs
Beckon to the palm wine and banana girls
Kicking away the dying beetles of N'Douci.