At least admire the work it took
to drive the stylus into chipboard
once the paneling, fake wood or Formica,
was awled to bare the chosen medium
for the etching of these fertility motifs,
all genetalia you’d think pre-Cambrian
except that college students did them,
anonymously as the artists of the caves.
Moved by them, T.S. Eliot once declared
art doesn’t improve. But the execution’s worn
by the medium, glue and sawdust,
ashes to ashes. Take the time to to admire
the force that drove the writing implement
through the flimsy partition of the back seat.
He must’ve meant to break down walls,
reach unfettered day or night, meet
the corn-rowed shaman with his rattling-stick--
even with nothing much to say to him.
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