â€?”Cynic,”she called me
when I said, “Disasters
shouldn’t be this much fun,”
and laughed out loud at
bouncing cheerleaders
in short skirts holding
hastily scrawled signs reading,
â€?”Help Katrina’s Victims,”
and pointed us to yet
another car wash
where we could watch
idealistic teens try
to scrub away
generations of neglect.
â€?”Americans love a good
disaster,” I retorted.
Nothing makes us feel
as good as helping
those we’ve exploited
the last 150 years.
For half a millisecond
we’re one nation, under God,
invisible, clothing the poor
by emptying closets
of Calvin Klein jeans,
Vera Wang dresses,
and, later, deducting twice
the value of our donations.