CHRISTMAS POEM:
"I CAN HELP THE NEXT PERSON AT THIS REGISTER, PLEASE!"


The mysteries of parallel parking,
Afternoon of a failed species. 
Exhibit desires. See where it gets you. Hot-wired whole hog
Top down cruisin' on-the-fly choosin'
The right job for the tool. We don't work for ourselves,
We work for the economy. Feel it up just right
And generate some heat. And for the super-species 
Of the late twentieth century: call him Mall-Man,
Watch him spend, he buffets the crowd with enormous shoulders
And pointy elbows, bench presses thrice his weight
In home electronics, lets the poor line up at the ATMs
Then makes them wait behind him at the check-out
While his plastic thrashes the mainframe,
So huge is his credit limit. No limits, no worries,
Never put off till Wednesday what you can put off till Thursday,
But this jerk has to be rung up now. Wrung out. Money is a verb.
Form follows funk. Something has to live in the suburbs.
For what good it does we feed it goods.

Tuesday  December 11, 1990  8:12 pm
David Fox