Cast a Soviet monument to our will
in some expanding polymer,
that it may swell and distort:
a Chernobyl marshmallow
over the fiddled roofs.
Assure our citizens of each distention’s
historical accuracy. Shield them
from the dice shot in all our bellies
for a minute with the marionette strings
that trigger a finger’s grace
or fumble.
Breathe nothing of luck, lest our people
pluck the die from their guts to gamble
in earnest, and abandon their oil-slicked guilt.
No better leash exists than this
prismatic filth; all dutifully scrub
with bulk-purchased cleansing salve.
So sing to them
of the sacrificial quotas overfilled
and the endless cable channels waiting in heaven,
of their virtue like a single-sided coin
and the mercifully short half-life of radium.
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