I Live in America
A blade of grass pricks the
feet of those that wander
through the downtrodden era
of heightened alert.
As life is put on hold,
they make their way to the
fields to celebrate as if
a higher power commands them
to do so.
"Never Again,"
They say to themselves as they
glance disdainfully at their
empty plates.
They are ashamed.
They wake on sticky Saturday
afternoons with a fear in
their belly and a feast in
their minds.
Though they detest the
frustrations accompanied with
their wants, they give in,
as a pack of ravaging wolves
give in to the kind smell of
raw flesh.
"Never Again,"
They plead to themselves, but
the corporations disagree as they
shove slush lavishly decorated
slowly transforming into a
hibernating mass of sweat-soaked
flesh, staining any hopes of a
further consolation prize.
And, they accept their demise.
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