Of Thee I Sing

Mike Dorsam

 

This America of ours goes from bad to bad and back again in one fell swoop,

poisoned by all the faint glimmers of hope grown dim and stale within the breath

of moonshine and misleading democracies,

this America which once saw red now sees brown and cringes as it squeezes into fetal

positions but too late for that now, as adulthood has obliterated all the wonders

of Jefferson’s youth and Roosevelt’s crippled imagination set adrift on blind

seas of rage chopped with short-sighted selfish purpose,

this America which runs on harsh crude mixed with drippings from those who cannot

afford all that is necessary to sustain the endless cycle, they give their too-high

price to men in hats with ridiculous brims and suits made of awful currency,

but not paper, something more real, more tangible, more alive,

this warm America afloat in a great tub that is getting smaller, yet boundaries laden with

ramparts and battlements are ever built and reinforced,

an America that puts on coat and hat and mittens, yet goes to work naked at its core,

and pretends not to be cold while the blue skin is plain to see.

Euphemism Campus Box 5555 Illinois State University Normal, IL 61790