When I was a kid the only clothes I
Recall my mother wearing were made of
Polyester
(Polyester fabric is concocted
From the tears of dinosaurs, oil rich
And strong with fibrous fear learned hard in the
swamps)
"These pants would survive a nuclear war,"
She declared as she pulled them fast and
Taught over her hips, pulling the elastic wide
And letting go of the band with a pleasing
Snap
And nuclear war was a possible thing back then,
You see. While we may not have dived under
Desks at the first sound of a siren, we all knew
That the possibility was there that we could wake
Up dead, or worse, and that there would be no more
Saturdays
We watched it on the jittery rolling lines of TV
Saw the flash saw the bones saw the flesh melt
Away because of a disagreement about how the
Economy was supposed to run and how poor people
Were supposed to be poor in each, which rules
They were to obey and which leaders they should
Adhere
(Karl Marx, by the way, dreamed of living in a
Hut, where, when approached, he would dole
Out life advice to the poor sots who were just
Looking for directions to the nearest Chevron
But he'd go on, and on, and the visitors kept
Inching further back from his threshold in
Silence
Only to run--finally escape and end up at Charles
Darwin's hut, replete with desiccated samples of
This and that bug, and this and that plant and this
And that life. Darwin had nothing to say, other
Than "Live with it." And inching back inching
Away, Darwin takes and interest and thrust a bug
In her face
"That's it!" the visitor declares, shoving her hands
Deep into non-existent polyester pockets to find
Nothing but fibrous rage. Turning sharp, she next
Finds the hut of Adam Smith, who is too busy counting
Gold to even answer the rasping knock of flesh on
Palm fronds
"Get to work," is the only thing he says)
But I digress
