Insistent knocks interrupt my favorite protest anthems,
old message music for a passing generation.
Mindful of scratches,
I lift needle from vinyl,
open the door to a neighbor who knows
the vixen who dens in my yard
is a red fox about-to-be-mom. Still, he persists in calling her “it,”
threatens to have her “humanely” killed.
This man leads a youth group that meets Wednesday evenings.
Does he seed contempt for other parents’ offspring?
I slide the album back in its sleeve,
recall a study that shows twenty-first century kids
recognize thirty corporate logos before the age of six,
yet many cannot name
flowers, trees, or animals
that aren’t household pets.
Boys know the brands of trucks made in Detroit.
A Ram is not the father of lambs; it’s a verb.
My nephew’s third word was “M’Donald,”
amusing my sister as she drove her family
to a playground of hard plastic playthings
where small nameless birds
vie for crumbs that contain unpronounceable chemicals.
From electric, locked windows at sixty miles an hour,
my niece glimpses innocent oaks,
doing only the good of helping her breathe,
dying in piles heaped before
earth-ravaging machines.
Her brother knows what a Caterpillar does,
but he can’t name the ones who morph into butterflies,
or the milkweed they need to survive.
What song lyrics root in his head,
planted by the earphones he constantly wears?
I am only a distant, childless aunt.
Who will want my collection of used 70s records,
the turntable spinning old questions
in a loop that repeats for a new generation?
Who will cry mercy, mercy, what’s goin’ on,
or turn, turn, turn us toward a season of atonement,
when all might live as the creator intended?
What will the children teach the parents?
How will we get back to the garden?
