We used to send salesmen
with dynamo jaws
knocking on backyard trees.
They knew where to find squirrels.
The salesmen would try to sell ideas and
the ground beef of one man’s life.
Squirrels wanted gossip and nuts only.
Sold nothing but moss the idea of being green
and cattle their own death.

Now the old sales office has become
the headquarters for a gang of outlaws.
We hold-up everything we touch to
see through its fools gold decor—
written reports only—
unless it is the real thing
in which case
we give it a microphone.