America, read the room.

The pharmacist and the mail carrier

know all your dirty little secrets.

You’re down in the dumps

depressed, holding onto

the last Gothic window ledge.

              You’re an assassin after the shot,

scoping out the closest exit—

Can’t sit still.  A shock-jock on steroids.

America, you don’t know what 

hit you, now bankrupt as a meme.  

Your pockets picked clean,

a gambling casino when

the real lights go on. 

                 There is no longer

a scenic route.  Shakespeare sonnets

are banned from being taught.  

                  Signs point to porn shops

on the interstates.   You’re that drunk

that never knows when to go home.

The bullied school kid that ends

by shooting up a shopping mall.

             America, you gave at the shuttered 

office.  The white-collar dudes, 

selling weed and Jesus.  You sold out 

to a Girl Scout Troop, selling boxes 

of mint-marijuana cookies---picked by 

workers now jailed in crocodile swamps.