Social
Humans are a social species, the men
in white coats, whom we have been
taught to trust, persuade us. Mr. President
mills about, run-of-the-mill
if you will, running the mill of the party,
the gathering. The women, like bushels
in their bustles, bustle about, foofing
their ruffles as trivialities are exchanged,
like bites
of cake that no one wants to admit
are too small. Mrs. First Lady extinguishes
the fire with a fire extinguisher of perfume,
atomized droplets
settling on chiffon like the Pilgrims
at Plymouth Rock. The men, neatly
assembled like compact
cars fresh off the assembly line,
assemble the women, corralling them
as a herd, unleashing
the lasso when one of them makes
herself heard.
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