I walked miles with myself
and a rifle shooting squirrels,
skinning rattlesnakes and listening
to sprawling oak trees speak,
often as a boy. Hawks and buzzards
eyed me suspiciously, gave me
space and a name that cut both ways
and waited while I made up my mind.

In those days, propaganda
was a dirty word—nowadays
it’s all we ever know.
With good advertising
employing every sense of being
someone, we sell planned obsolescence
like hotcakes—each bite
paid for with a little bit of soul.

                                             for David Wilke

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