This cannot be
Where bloated power
stuffs rags in the mouths
of servants, weakened
because some bastards removed
their food and means,
leaving them to live on charity.
Sympathy. This cannot be
my America. Where smirking young men
mock Veteran elders on t.v.
and the image of a crying native elicits
no longer compassion, empathy,
but gleeful insolence. Antipathy. This cannot be
my America. Where brothers
and sisters live in toxicity, any
proximity too close to bear, where
at the hint of a humble budge,
excuses for grudge whip out
like handcuffs, bruising the wrists
of potential peacemakers. This cannot be
my America. Where images are
Agent Orange, and you better watch news
with the sound turned down.
Better yet, mute it. You never know
what you’ll hear next. This cannot be
my America. This cannot be
my country. This cannot mean
what it means
to be free.