Society gentry unload Great Danes
for a bite at the designer doggie bakery
in the heart of homeless Pioneer Square—
palaces of neon toys and metered movies
zoning would push off into the sticks
while Seattle busies with aerobics to see
how the next rows of shoulders turn out.
After the crackdown we ditch the hotties
and eat alone, waiting
unless you can tell the mayor
to her televised face
you miss discount aerosol spray
dripping buffoonishly in obscene alleys.
Gaudy signatures remind one of the virtue of humility
lest the animals wandering in us
creep out the girl walking in those guys
while those others mark up the map
like new breeds of deeds and trust by bus line.
One only wishes, while the open garden makes open rebellion futile,
for every lovely girl we’ll find a boy who’s nubile.
And while half of what we say is half empty
half the salmon are half up river for nothing
and for every island lost to global warming
somewhere higher another McDonald’s is forming.
So we summon shaman to police the perimeter—
and say Sorry! What we’ve done to our earth is shoddy . . .
and go on sewing echoes to empty bodies,
the friendly market waiting at an undisclosed singularity
ready to upload with just a finger,
while in accord with the committee,
we remain calm, left to linger.