Bakelite Poem by Leo Yankevich

<small>
"As Baekeland got older he became more eccentric, getting into fierce battles with his son and presumptive heir over salary and other issues. He sold the General Bakelite Company to Union Carbide in 1939 and, at his son's prompting, he retired. He became a recluse, eating all of his meals from cans and becoming obsessed with developing an immense tropical garden on his winter estate in Coconut Grove, Florida." —Wikipedia</small>

Armoires collect fine dust
as wood cracks, hinges rust,
but bakelite endures
in handles on warped drawers.

Like burnished tangerine,
fine stone turquoise green
it houses oldie static,
<i>art deco</i> in the attic.

The brown switch, the black phone,
bracelet beads shaped like cone
come from your mortal hand,
Leo Baekeland.

We come now to ask pardon
with flowers from your garden.
Eternity is sweet
and salty as the meat

you ate before your muse,
a sad unkempt recluse.
Forsaken son of man,
enjoy your Campbell's can.