2-27-2009 Son of Andrews, kneel before Lodge

You credit not your father’s heros, nor
the scavenged skins they wore. Re-taled pursuits
like theirs don’t interest daughters that adore
winking talismans from the cult of cute.

Yours are relevant relics – dangling for
a moment from your ear. But they were charged
by speed-ball expletives your father swore
in his kinetic fields of youth. Enlarged

commitments may have overwhelmed the rage
of boyhood dreams, but they remain within
that phantom zone behind your need to cage
limitless worlds in brittle plastic. When

the numbers fade, when Earth’s four corners bend
whose wrath will fund your appetite to spend?