Sur la Lune

81 words ^[1]

Let’s put on monocles, protract roll call,
and, in the tattered photo’s many greys,
count them in striped pajamas and berets,
these savant-frauds flogged by the wind of fall.

Daltons, Robespierres they are, experts in tune
with the great socialist experiment
who rescue boatloads to our detriment.
Let’s hoist them high and put them on the moon.

No furnace for these kosher cops and reds,
no smoke for trans-totalitarians,
only light as pale as Aryans,
and, stardust, frozen-over river beds.

March 7-9, 2018