Kermit the Frog grew up in a swamp
before he moved to Manhattan
where all the rats still skate on butter.
He tried to warn us that rainbows are only illusions,
back before his voice changed,
back when swamps seemed quirky and cute.
Speaking of swamps, a story came out today
about the 2010 discovery by Felisa Wolfe-Simon
of a low form of life that lives in the muck
and somehow thrives on toxic arsenic;
she has now discovered other seemingly mindless creatures
that appear to thrive on sheer magnetism alone.
I live in the blue center dot
of a tidal pool made of salt and Windex
surrounded by organisms that live
on all that is poisonous, microbes that live
by breaking down all structure,
that thrive on decomposition.
People cheer as every potentate since Saint Reagan
swears to finally drain the swamp; yet instead
we see it is the swamp that drains us.
We are mangroves surrounding ourselves with mangroves,
all standing up to our knees in it,
mired in marsh and methane.
We all know swamps smell like corrupted flesh,
yet our nostrils are so saturated we can’t tell anymore.
Complacency is a swamp we think is stagnant
even as it spreads to engulf us, and Canada, and Greenland.
We have become swamp things: reluctant heroes twisted by the world,
trying to save what we can; a show too implausible to endure for long.
before he moved to Manhattan
where all the rats still skate on butter.
He tried to warn us that rainbows are only illusions,
back before his voice changed,
back when swamps seemed quirky and cute.
Speaking of swamps, a story came out today
about the 2010 discovery by Felisa Wolfe-Simon
of a low form of life that lives in the muck
and somehow thrives on toxic arsenic;
she has now discovered other seemingly mindless creatures
that appear to thrive on sheer magnetism alone.
I live in the blue center dot
of a tidal pool made of salt and Windex
surrounded by organisms that live
on all that is poisonous, microbes that live
by breaking down all structure,
that thrive on decomposition.
People cheer as every potentate since Saint Reagan
swears to finally drain the swamp; yet instead
we see it is the swamp that drains us.
We are mangroves surrounding ourselves with mangroves,
all standing up to our knees in it,
mired in marsh and methane.
We all know swamps smell like corrupted flesh,
yet our nostrils are so saturated we can’t tell anymore.
Complacency is a swamp we think is stagnant
even as it spreads to engulf us, and Canada, and Greenland.
We have become swamp things: reluctant heroes twisted by the world,
trying to save what we can; a show too implausible to endure for long.
Mark Hendrickson (he/him/his) is a gay poet and writer in the Des Moines area. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Variant Lit, Vestal Review, The New Verse News, Spellbinder, and others. Mark worked for many years as a Mental Health Technician in a locked psychiatric unit. He has advanced degrees in marriage & family therapy, health information management, and music. Follow him @MarkHPoetry.
