CROP DUSTERS OUT OF MOTHBALLS

Strobe flash in time, all the big
plans for man shelved in the pantry
to be replaced by figures in white

with spray guns and hoses, back-packs
leaking disinfectant, sweeping vermin
from city streets and houses.

                              Orwell,
                              Burroughs,
                              Wells and
                              Heinlein

Crop dusters out of mothballs. We see ourselves
on huge screens, ever-watched and judged
by new rulers with clean hands in latex gloves
sipping nectar and ambrosia behind the veil of Oz.

Even the old duffers will learn to march in line
or hide like wild game, escape to the underground
tunnel leading to a sunlit, pastoral nirvana
that makes a living in nearly everyone’s mind.

New plane and playing field, we will learn to live
within ourselves without touching flesh-to-flesh,
without feeling the prolonged kiss that wanders
and explores new territory of an uncertain future.