by Paul French

Created on: November 12, 2008

Protesting

It's six p.m. and she's still

Circumnavigating the world's

Latitudes with her tongue,

Ignoring the rest of coplanar existence

To talk about Sloth Bears, Beluga

And Rock Wrens who, Seussian

Though they may sound,

Are, she claims, in a severe state:

Dying because of

Man's indent on her Gaia.

She made a poster and it's raised like

A red star among the proles

There's no agitprop, but phraseology

That would make Castro proud.

"Ravagers of the Mother"

"Profiteers for Murder"

And if she had an M-4 drawn beside

The doleful eyes of a Monk Seal

A few people could be compelled

To drop the Greenpeace Warhammer

Down onto their world

Of tree-hunting savages,

Poachers with soot for souls,

Careless loafers and free-range grazers.

Would she fire the gun?

Would she detoxify the world of men like me?

Men who watch and listen,

Who go to her rallies just to see her

Multicultural bric-a-brac dangle

And bounce from her tiny neck and ears.

I want to know.

So I tell her that her Beluga can go to Hell

And that Sloth Bears are mistakes

For God to dump off at the tip-top of Crumpet.

She hesitates.

Looks for the joke and the lightness

But sees the same face that has supported her

For calendars.

I know that she'll pick up the bullet casing

When she's done.

Because in her-our Gaia, a man without conviction

Is not so rare as a Hippo

And is easily swept away

Not missed

Nor revered,

Nor listed as vulnerable.

Learn more about this author, Paul French.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.