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.”