“OUT, OUT, DAMN SPOT!”
(THE GAME SHOW)

I wouldn’t speak that way to me if I were you.
No, almost definitely, I would not. But then, if I were you,
I most likely would not speak at all, but curl up, fetus-like
in the corner, stricken with the ineptitude of God’s financing
in areas such as creation and genetic inheritance. And if I
were doing this, and I were you, who would you be?

Lost in the shuffle, that’s who; a blank spot, a shadow figure,
a dawn-day silhouette no one would be willing to step into.
And yes, all the crustaceans would curl up their tails in salute,
and the tad poles would do a slow dive backwards into
the sperm pool, and it would all be like some old
Esther Williams swim-&-dance routine;
A celebrity roast to the blind force of evolution.

Up to the podium walks a man we’ve never seen before,
and he would ask, “The envelope, please…” and your name
would be on it, announced to the crowd, the camera crews
searching you out, the spotlight frantic, and we would all
fall down the open keyhole of your identity, spiraling down
like a DNA chain, holding hands, not knowing whose hands
we’re holding, partners for eternity, like Groucho & Marx,
like Karl & Engels, like Fish & Chips, tumbling, deposited,
as safe as a rerun, as two lovers—each with their finger
in a socket—stretching across the long room
to meet in a kiss.