SIGHTSEEING IN HARD TIMES

                   We chomp on cheeseburgers near the vegetarians,

                   whose curious offspring have never known the taste of meat.

                   Nearby, the dynamite plant spews smoke,

                   as rubble swells from the noise.

                   No time for poise; we'll see it on the evening news.

                   Rangers from the selenium mill

                   take snapshots at protozoans passing by

                   on a laboratory slide.

                   By the pagoda we eat granola

                   made in an ebullient formula

                   behind a bungalow hid in the honeydew.

                   The trill of omens intensifies the moment.

                   Folksongs spring from the garden

                   in the foliage of cosmic petunias.

                   There is a scent of rest among us,

                   but we soon stir toward our next misfortune.

                   Ever since we left the hourglass and turned to clocks,

                   midday has meant television news broadcasts

                   invading our lunch.

                   Every backyard displays a compost pile

                   for the rite of spring;

                   'smells like old times,' the hog farmers smile.

                   Cowpokes on horseback wander through suburbs

                   in search of a rodeo. They lasso out tales

                   about the end of the range.

                   The mystic, arcade lights dazzle our stares,

                   and we hear the excitement of loose change

                   splashing by the wishing well.

                   A lost norseman scratches his neck and says to himself:

                   Put another notch in your antlers, and head for the taiga

                   Just in time for climate change. 

         

                    In the park we pause by parchment

that narrates odes to ancestors,

                    who lived before the time of shopping malls.

         

                    Before moving on, we lean on the barrels

                   below the plaque that says:  Keep your city clean.

                   The vegetarian children continue to watch us

                   as if we are out of place.

                   We wave to them with jolly grins, walk to our car,

                   and talk over who's turn it is to sit in the back.

                                                          -- C.S. Cholas

                                                              USA, 1989