Upon arrival the empathetic social workers from
surviving countries applied Vapo-Rub under their noses.
They sterilized scalpels and politely shook hands.
One worker found the head of Rumsfeld with thousands
of sturgeon floating in a radiated fish farm outside of Topeka.
At a truck stop in New Jersey they found the scorched carcass
of Mickey Mouse on the bathroom floor. His white gloves
smartly preserved between his ass cheeks.
They stumbled across a field of popcorn babies outside of
Wichita Falls. In Los Angeles, a hotel lobby of leather was
seared to naked rock stars, with uncompromised big hair.
Inside the Pentagon’s walk-in closet were 500 unfortunate
businessmen, and on the roof; the slow boiled remains
of every congressional wife, covered in, what could only
be described as designer cotton.
One worker scratched at his chin from behind
a rusted shack in Orlando; Hey, fellas, is this
the body of an Oscar winner or a school teacher?
With soda can grabbers they plucked the president’s family
from an apple tree in Vermont and placed them in zip lock bags;
the ones with the patented fresh seal.
Each social worker shared an uncomfortable but understood
glance of agreement. They quietly removed their gloves
and deemed the land uninhabitable.
Later the United States would be systematically chiseled off
into the ocean. And the tales of what the social workers found
would become legendary folk-lore, whispered to
children before they went to sleep.