SIR

Kathleen Rooney

WHAT DOES HE WANT? THE FUTURE! WHEN DOES HE WANT IT? NOW!

Driving by a driving range
on his way out of town,

Robinson sees golf balls
knocked from tees—

clocked through atmosphere.
Trylon, he thinks. Perisphere.

1939 New York World’s Fair.
He was there. He was there.

In the letter he carefully wrote
to his friend in the Army,

he rolled his hand-written eyes:
they think mankind can rise

to the firmament. Now he writes:
razed & scrapped for World War

armaments. The world of tomorrow?
Here to stay. Rumbling away

from NYC on the LIE, Robinson
passes the rubble of Democracity.

In spite of himself, he misses
that scene. The Aquacade.

The Helicline. The sweet belief—
in incline, not decline—that he

wanted to have, but even then
couldn’t find. What could have

remained a national treasure, now
seems the last full measure

of obscene sarcasm. The war
was a chasm they were suspended

above. What will become
of them on the other side?

Memory is corrupt. Infinitely
corruptible. But he remembers:

they sold fun & we bought it. We
bought it. Xerox. Air conditioning.

RCA TV. German jet planes.
Kodachrome & color home

movies. Plexiglas. Lucite.
No point trying to fight it.