My wife, the clearance-sale commando,

brings home three overstuffed bags,

plunder from the local department store.

Among her finds, a package of handkerchiefs,

six in a box, ten cents each.

She has no recipient in mind;

she thought it was a steal

and couldn’t pass it up.

I have never used handkerchiefs,

and my kids don’t even know what they are.

Her father hasn’t used them in years.

We are a Kleenex society.

We replace the permanent

with the disposable, constantly.

We tear down thirty-year-old sports stadiums.

We throw away five-year-old computers.

Our landfills are filled with tissues,

Pampers, and plastic “silverware”.

But now, even the disposable

is yielding to the virtual:

e-mail, e-books, e-forms, e-friends.

Their existence rides on binary pulses.

Soon even paper, when it can be made,

will be obsolete.

One thing I know, nevertheless,

looking at this collectible box of handkerchiefs,

is that we will never figure out how to virtually

blow our noses.

04/28/2003

Posted on 04/29/2003
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt