I hear the rheumatic breathing
     and the roaring grumble of her digestive system
     as she assimilates the farm-spirit of the heartland
          of suburbia
          and the academic enthusiasm
     with the equanimity of a weed-eater.

She trades illusions for dreams
     brilliant busy impersonal hollow illusions
     for soft innocent pastel intimate dreams;
          though many hold those dreams hidden
          clutched tight to their bosom
     she is indefatigable and will eventually
          wrench those dreams from even the most
          secret heart of such naïfs.

Who am I to deny the inevitability
     of this blast furnace which reduces 
     all metamorphic and crystalline structures
          to its most base elements
     forever separating fertile aggregates
          of our heritage.

Who am I who drives bravely down this artery
     in the middle of the morning madness
     into the heart of this beast
          careful to preserve my provisional anonymity
          least I be squashed out-of hand.

- Paul Malécot