Snackbar scammers hawk water for four-fifty;
the throng slides up a foot inside the chamber.

Inquisitive kids, or would be if they’d shut down
phones and spend a minute with wild environs.

New ways to view bodies as soft meat shells
amid globe-turning chaos. Do they conclude,
here in the plastic museum, that everything ends?

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My mother, a teacher, kept a cerulean
Rand McNally globe stashed in her classroom:
my first hint at four that sobbing through
a doctor’s trip was chump change to the universe.
Twenty-six now and fumbling oaken chairs
and ceramic busts inside antique
shops, gangly in my way, just to locate
another orb. The right sphere. Eternal
in ultramarine and yelling me to spin,
to pay what I don’t have to recapture
a moment when the planet’s consequence
evoked more than sheer dread and knowing demise.
Now crave meaning, widen the scope — wanted:
a study of a Rand McNally globe.