Replicas

Replicas


When it became clear aliens
were working here
with their dead-giveaway,
perfectly cut Armani suits,
excessive politeness, and those ray guns
disguised as cell phones
tucked into their belts,
I decided we had two choices:
cocktail party to befriend them,
or massive air strikes (I joked
at the board meeting)
on what might be a hospital
for children with rare diseases,
but could as easily be where
these aliens spawned and lived.
Cocktail party it was, and they came
with their gorgeous women
dressed like replicas of gorgeous women,
and though they sipped their martinis
as if they'd graduated
from some finishing school
between their world and ours,
I must admit they were good company,
talking ball scores and GNP,
even movies,
and how bright and inviting
the stars seemed from my deck.
I found myself almost having sympathy
for what certain people will do
to fit in, until I remembered
they might want to take over,
maybe even blow things up.
And when the dog barked
from the other room,
the way she does when
some creature is nearby,
about to cross an invisible line,
I was sure I couldn't afford
to trust appearances ever again.
But when it was time to leave,
they left, saying at the door
what a good evening they'd had.
Each of them used the same words,
like people who've been trained in sales,
and as they moved
to their Miatas and Audis
I noted the bare shoulders of their women
were the barest shoulders I'd ever seen,
as if they needed only
the night as a shawl.


Stephen Dunn

Posted over on Poet's Free Lunch