In Beryl's Wake
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
connections).
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.
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