Flotsam Crown

barbercide and clipper oil, the musk

lingers from the person last cut.

a vinyl cape draped from my shoulders,

“Lean back,” she says, my muscles boulders.

“How’s the water?” she inquires

four degrees too warm, our future pyre.

fish corpses and algae blooms,

a detritus skin on anoxic doom.

the sea flows all around:

capitalist waste my plastic, flotsam crown.

Mister America ’81,

former splendor, glamour and glitz,

boiled the oceans and killed the fish.

tax cuts, acid rain, deregulation,

a pro-business climate of conservative wish.

what do you want? I’m interrupted.

I want a planet that isn’t corrupted.

a chance to heal the sins

of cruel and cavalier men

but for today,

 “Just a trim.”