Dispatches from the Future
Inspired by Lady Adjusters Spend a Day in the Archives of the U.S. Treasury
I wore my Sunday best.
--a red suit, a clover locket.
My eyes, my spades. My gloves,
yellowed by the air in the adjusting
room’s brigade. My heart, a shiny target.
Gold. Silver. Copper. I’m a metal manipulator,
and eager to play for coins and promised medal.
Corsets tucked, as tight as the concealer on my lids,
I inquire-- Where are our names? First. Last. I find none.
I packed a spare pair of fresh drawers,
corners folded, in my leopard-skin purse.
Fake, of course. Not the earnest expression
I’d wear if I passed through conventional
conversation.
By the skin—of my pocketbook
my locket, and my eye sockets--
I am, a leopard in Lady
Adjuster trim.
I do not exist
--neither in silent archives nor on pay-to-view TV.
Plus, interest never paid much.
the future dispatches letters of regret
To Lady Adjusters,
I regret to inform you that there is no record.
I regret to inform you that the air was indeed poisonous.
I regret to inform you the task has now been automated.
I regret to inform you that two cents still aren’t worth much.
I regret to inform you that Henry Voight failed to keep his promise.
I regret to inform you that The Mint’s breath is not always fresh.
I regret to inform you that your name is not in the history curriculum.
I regret to inform you that Honest Abe is on the chopping block.
I regret to inform you that Susan B’s coin was a flop.
I regret to inform you that women still wear heels to please.
I regret to inform you that Wonder (of bread and trends) spoils.
I regret to inform you that adjustments are still needed.
I regret to inform you that women’s dresses still fail to adopt pockets.
I regret to inform you that we again have a King (and it’s not Elvis).
I regret to inform you that gloves are still on, and skirts are still measured.
I return to the dishes. An ill-fated digression. Signed, a dispatch from the future.
