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Asleep in aisles, you neatly laid out rows
Attentive throughly to wrinkled clothes,
Pre-boarded travelers, needing care,
I feel a sad, oppresed, funereal air
Among our stubs ripped clean, & overhead
Baggage motionless, lying dead:
The blood of all Earth's nations flows out red.
Ought I pity all these pasty wogs,
Each face a page from casting catalogues:
(One in a swimsuit, two smaller from the slicks
With nicknames tried, discarded til one sticks),
All vying for the choice position filled,
Rehearsed within the limits of The Guild?
How well they each portray the quick and killed.
Were we all fellow sheep smashing to queue
Up noisily, butting horns & heads through
The last adventure, through the wooden straits
Where butcher's blades and dull-eyed butcher waits,
We could not seek to better fraternize,
Slapping shoulders toward a sure demise:
Not an aspect that they advertise.
This personal performance held for me
Is touching, yet a waste of minstrelsy.
A duller auditor is not on board
Despite the knitters napping, knotting cord:
Determining who lands and which crew flies.
You sleeping voyagers in thick disguise
Need coins to weight the lids of all your eyes.
2.28.96
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