I want to sit in my SUV
combust dead dinosaurs
into aerosols as tangible as need
I want the Monsanto magic
for my lawn, my Big Boy tomatoes
I want to wait in the drive-through—
engine roaring, gas escaping,
invisible music pumping into my box
sealed and thus safe from the outside—
for my chicken made of corn
my shake made of sugar (made of corn)
my fries fried in corn
What matters is this moment
the right tempo to tap my fingers to
phone surfing, wifi filling space
from here to Saturn as the years drag on
to know no matter how much I cut
myself off from touch, taste, smell
I am not alone
