Replicas
When
it became clear aliens were working here
with their dead-giveaway, perfectly cut Armani suits,
excessive politeness, and those ray guns
disguised as cell phones tucked into their belts,
I decided we had two choices: cocktail party
to befriend them, or massive air strikes (I joked
at the board meeting) on what might be a hospital
for children with rare diseases, but could
as easily be where these aliens spawned and lived.
Cocktail party it was, and they came
with their gorgeous women dressed like replicas
of gorgeous women, and though they sipped
their martinis as if they'd graduated
from some finishing school between their world
and ours, I must admit they were good company,
talking ball scores and GNP, even movies,
and how bright and inviting the stars seemed
from my deck. I found myself almost
having sympathy for what certain people will do
to fit in, until I remembered they might want
to take over, maybe even blow things up.
And when the dog barked from the other room,
the way she does when some creature is nearby,
about to cross an invisible line, I was sure
I couldn't afford to trust appearances ever again.
But when it was time to leave, they left,
saying at the door what a good evening they'd had.
Each of them used the same words,
like people who've been trained in sales,
and as they moved to their Miatas and Audis
I noted the bare shoulders of their women
were the barest shoulders I'd ever seen,
ad if they needed only the night as a shawl.
--Stephen
Dunn
Copyright © 2005 by Free Lunch Arts Alliance
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