Walt Whitman and I are gazing at the Earth from our space shuttle. Walt is furiously scribbling poems about the environment, and I’m feeling rather smug because it was my idea to invite him along. Like history will award me partial credit for these poems. I glance over at the poet, who’s looking fit and trim--his beard a little scraggly, but whatever. He’s wearing a pair of brand-new jeans. Then I notice his brass belt buckle, which reads “PERV.”
If only he had lived in our century, I think, when he wouldn’t have been forced to wear that buckle.