Hard to imagine yourself
in the ground . . . a shabby mess
of broken spindles, the loom
that cranked out the cloth of you
smashed, scattered—and somewhere
the ego sputtering its rage.

You can hear it now—railing
like a mill-town dowager
piqued, let’s say, by the country’s
fraying moral fiber. Her spotted fist
gavels the tea-table . . . making
the bone teacups clatter.

“Oh! The very idea!”

(first published in Prairie Schooner)