MONUMENT

The gross national product of Congo
is in a state of collapse, swooning
in the heat of tribal friction. Flagrant
fouls could be called at any juncture.
Tire changers in the pits work furious
for speed. Ballerinas court serious
injury while leaping off escalators
in toe shoes. They are Christmas shopping
for drugs to mute the pain of their leaping.
Shin splints, torn cruciates, stress
fractures. Let’s follow these criminals
on their pas de deux perambulations. Stop

feeding at the Ben & Jerry’s trough, cats
one to another, sucking in her ribs. In
the record store, a lone accountant considers:
Streisand or Midler? The choices we have
and take for granted while most of the world
suffers without. Concrete doubles asphalt’s
price, Tylenol the generic’s. A bluebird flies
into the plate glass windbreak. Now the jury
must consider: who manufactured the glass?
Who installed it? Who insured it? What role
did singular grains of sand play? Avaricious
dilettantes arabesque in search of answers.

Arbeit Macht Frei. Think about the market.
The trembling thick-tongued architect, truncated
by Parkinson’s, references Midwest stockyards
and Rhineland kilns in his handsome iron-strapped
brick-towered museum. Out of the corner
of his monument, Jefferson winks. Yes, right
Bernard, I believe that was a wink we saw. Now
he’s making his way to the South Lawn, waving
to the crowd. There’s a thumbs up to the first
lady, who will stay in town to address the Breast
Cancer Conference tonight. He’s on the chopper
steps now. A salute. One last wave. Back to you.