Eleventh-grade science teachers produced an election: voters and polling places dreamed up by their experiments. A candidate spoke. “A flagship supermarket,” he refined, sundialing his worn felt coveralls. “Pastor fervor, jeans unheralded.” Then polling began. Slinking around, senators began bellowing and whatnot, arguing with scientist clout. With their land-lubber forearms, the senators looked up to them, honestly. I shook my head. I guess I was one of them now.
“Speech,” the locksmiths imploded.
It lifted my spirits. By the time it was over, my head lowered. I’d rattled on once again, while scientists looked down on the election. My candidate raced with the tent-pole rationale of a being in love.
Out of earshot, thoughts warned him to quit speaking. I thought about laws of physics. The hospitality industry overshot by a few second guesses, but I wondered about the physics of the thing. Let’s at least re-enact the experiment (myself included, my new girlfriend, and whoever she wants to be present).
At the physics audition, hospitality workers applauded. “I’ll bet their ethics are off -- this whole generation, really,” I told my selfless girlfriend.
“Umbilical cords – a noose for the youth,” uttered Sheila. Even in her disregard, she was my girlfriend. Venerable senators no one could leave behind.
A physics expert (an Italian) cured us, then. “Why shave your beards? Hospitality calls for action. And if someone can be elected in a science laboratory, just sit back and get comfortable with the new hairline regime,” he intoned, heaving his improbable butter knife.
Laboratory scientists quibbled over election results, declining to count my spindly-limbed vote with the masses of other folk singers backpacking for change.