Hooked and hauled in, flung down onto the sand to flap,
arching, flopping, struggling to work its way back into the sea,
the whole Atlantic cheering it on, wave after wave, willing it
home, but the scales soon loose their sheen under the sun and
the glow in the eyes goes dull.
Born consumers, we couldn’t resist the bait.
And now to be part of the stew, the American bouillabaisse,
all of us schooled to believe that more is never enough no matter
how much we already have — the fish and fruit de mer bubbling,
the fragrance rising like incense as the host raises his wine glass and
all drink to each other’s health.
Globally bubbling, ready to serve. That’s us.
Lord, what a fairy tale! You couldn’t make this kind of thing up
up, up, and away, as the saying goes — or went back in the day when
Superman, alias Clark Kent, was a reporter on a major metro daily and
could perceive, from his pov high in the sky, the soup we were in as we,
feeling the heat, cried out to Clark:
Save us, Clark, for we are lost in space and running out of time.
And as we cried, the lid closed over us like the dome of an astrodome,
and the heat rose and the cheerleaders leaped high into the air, and indeed
the whole stadium rose up as if goosed, as if bleachers and boxes were wired.
And a cry went up: God save the Wurlitzer! as the great organ glowed red and
swelled like a boil about to burst.
Save us, Clark, for it’s like a sauna in here and getting hotter.
Then it was that the specter of Al Haig, gripping the arms of his wheel chair,
cried out, “I’m in charge here!” while Mike Pence, scalped by his own halo,
still smiled as Haig rolled out onto the field, which opened like a gigantic mouth
responding to a dentist’s instruction, even as Clark struggled to don his garment
in the tight squeeze of a phone booth.
Too tight. Too hot. Too late. And nobody left to turn down the heat.
