( An apology for a quick and ill-considered assignment based on the declaration,
’We’re here to look at your sprinkler head’ )
Oh dance the interrupt polka,
the morning news with Mars bars,
motor cars, coffee with mocha.
The sprinkler man has come
to look for drips,
and bad trips, stimulating
an irreverence for authority,
and just about everything
else, especially inferiority
to ‘Special K’ Menshes
crunching with wrenches
whence a drip.
‘We’ve come here, madam, to see’
algorithymically shattering our privacy
our secluded meditations
our secret inclinations
splattered and revealed,
torn, as might a spider web collapse
into a face with sticky bug cases,
our thoughts are disordered,
like commercials screwing up love scenes,
coitus interruptus redux.
The spider in the closet is aghast
her web is ruined, splattered alas
entwined in a pushy inspectors face.
Must we be open to intrusion,
listen to amplified Listerine ads,
lipstick patina, M and M’s prancing,
watch murders and bouncy babies hands
selling watch bands,
allow cameras to watch us,
cell phones to track us?
Polled and monitored
us delegated consumers
bandied about by rumors
of terrorists, or enormous debts
hide in our homy castles.
To avoid all the hassle.
must we grow beards;
hairy privacy shields?
Dear spider, interrupted,
web demolished, come back
build again in your darkness,
we’re out here where sprinklers drip
any time they wish.
Kent Bowker Nov 23 2011