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Global Domination

Ben Mitchell


Back in fourth-grade homeroom, Mr. Wyman
in his stiff green pants would prattle on
endlessly the meaningless tid-bits:

the principle products of Botswana,
the proper usage of the floated reflexive itself.
Rows of chairs, in front they knew everything.

I remember a faded brown and yellow globe
pinned in its revolving wooden mounting.
Not the blue plastic one with clear delineation

marking boundaries of the evil empire,
but the old one with traces of long-extinct paradigm,
places like the Belgian Congo and St. Petersburg.

And in that world, I was immortal,
moving free through the great expanse
of brown mountains and orange rivers.

How the boys of Guatepa pounded the trees
with spears they made from the jaws
of Malaysian Gila Monsters.

The crowded squares of Amnesia Fantastica,
where supremacy dressed in flip-flop sandals
and really big hats. We elite few would meet

each afternoon, below the marble archway
to wander back alleys, dividing the fortunes
of our small brown world equally between us.

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