Welcome, We Have Peanut Butter

poetry

Welcome, We Have Peanut Butter

I’m a sign man.
I work for the county.
My favorite song is by the Five Man Electrical Band.
I know it was a hippie protest song.
But I think people need direction.
And most are too stubborn to ask for it.
They need to be told not to pee in the pool
not to dump their crap everywhere
not to confuse freedom 
with 200 varieties of colored plastic
not to solve their differences by killing
not to continue putting the sky’s eye out  
and to just slow down
where every dish, every sandwich
every dinner, every tea time
is a chance to realize
we’re all in this together.
Signs are everywhere.
In the face of a tortilla
the sculptures in the cornfields
the figures in my coffee cup
the shapes the clouds form
the brand new wrinkles.
My house is covered in signs.
For the birds and squirrels
it says Beware of Cats
in all the bird and squirrel
languages AI could find.
For the humans it reads 
Protected by the 2nd Amendment,
Would you like to see my nozzle?
And for the aliens, Welcome.  
We have peanut butter.
And they were nice at first
their heads shaped 
like white hats, typical
alien fish slits for eyes
long slithery toes and fingers
an abdomen for a mouth.
But now all they do
is watch the news, placing
slender digits into 
sticky jars of goo
sucking and laughing
the whole day through.
Their leader says
I don’t get this Epstein file thing.
The president doesn’t want to show 
that he once had an afro like him?
But it was all the rage in 1977.
Come on, Mr. Kotter, get us
another jar, would ya?
He calls me Mr. Kotter, says
they used to watch it on their planet
‘til they lost all transmission
in the war with the Centenarians.
And now they’re holding me hostage
in my own home, only allowing
me out for peanut butter runs
and nothing organic but the stuff
with all the added junk.
I beg them to take me with them
but they just keep laughing
glued to the tube and jar
of Earth’s latest comedy
We’re never going back.  
It's so boring. Nothing but peace
healthy food and nature programs.
Shots ring out! 
But it’s just one of the aliens
shooting off the hat 
of a stumbling trespasser
Oops! That hit too low!
Sticky finger stuck to trigger.
The cat comes in with a sly look
a small bird hanging
from her mouth hooks.
I’d like an exit but the backdoor says No.
I ask the Five Man Electrical Band
for just one more hit.  To show
me a sign once again
but the signs are no help.
The joke goes on and on
with no serious relief
anywhere

--Ray Sweatman 7/27/25