All this talk of new media, and instead I give you a poem.
I think, given the detrimental state of it all,
that our salvation, as a people and species, lies in the
restorative power of skimmed milk.
We all know that water will fail us—
it is, after all, susceptible to the whims
of braggarts and scallywags, tarred and satiated.
When the water skyrockets, when the bidding
starts on our thirst, the old Holsteins and Zebus will
tremble, their little cow knees knocking out dollars.
We won’t drown. We’ll simply suckle.
You said it all tasted like nothing anyway.
We may as well just drink the creamless,
you said (as if I didn’t understand simple “skimmed”).
The mere liquid of it works. And, oh, I know they’ll
say, there are ethical concerns. The methane, the hormones,
the guilt of consumption and sacrifice.
And when I remind them that they didn’t
have too many moral dilemmas the first time,
you’ll simply say that you should have invested in
the stuff when it was cheap.
We could have made a killing.
Ten minutes later I’ll laugh when you call it
white gold. And twenty minutes after that, when I
open that cranky refrigerator, a thought will drown me.
I’ll miss lemonade the most.