By John Thornburg
Build me a plastic home,
and fill it with styrofoam chairs
with cellophane walls and a celluloid bed
we make polyethylene love.
We eat only hydrogenated oils,
and delight in all the acrylic colors
of polystyrene stars that hang
like neon signs in synthetic skies
and amongst elastic trees with alloy leaves
we stare up into halogen twilight
from astroturf hills at fluorescent dawn,
we yearn for something organic.