Written by: Nola Perez

Wood Storks rock! They skewer 
the word purer with a white-
on-white the envy of any housewife's 
Monday wash, or laundry delivered home 
by women with baskets on their heads
after drying in the noonday sun 
in which only mad dogs and Englishmen go out, 
(or those with no Sears Roebuck 

Take heed, Ye hawkers of detergent 
wares, lascivious for new insignia. 
Send old trademarks to old obliv-ia, 
Take a winged design to fly away grime.  
And, while you're at it, add the color 
red for bloodshed in the marketplace, 
perfect hue for Madison Avenue.   

In tropic times, our storks, 
shelve safe haven from the branches 
on which no one lays laundry-- only their 
flawless selves.  They know a storm 
with a woman's name can put to shame 
all others,  and when Beryl's done 
and on the run, they return to bond in 
motherland, the moment seized: 
a genetic lust for oedipal trees.