Single Crystal Engine

Our fathers perfected the single crystal engine

in the few hours each day not spent shaving

as tribute to the steam eclipsed gods they mirrored

and whose cheeks like polished bronze shields

reflected the advances of copper-topped foes.

They seasoned their morning eggs with arsenic

and cooked all their meals in doorless microwaves,

illuminated by arcs of plasma that wavered and danced

on utensils and drawer knobs throughout the room

all under the plume of boiling countertop orange juice.

If they ever slept,

it must have been in the passing lane.

Fish who toggle brains to keep from drowning

between the accelerator and brake.

(The very world they were best suited for.)

In bars they performed impressions of their upbringing

long hidden drawls of mothers excavated with the tenderest of care

and reverence that would float ghosts to the surfaces 

of crystal clear liquids and long dry tumblers

immaculately stainless and print-free.