The rain had dried up –
every drip, every puddle –
but Hillie couldn't go out
while her room was a muddle.
Mom had been clear, and
her dad had agreed,
"First, clean up
... [+]
busts, in the shade.
Spiralling gold prices,
frozen pay checks,
suck it up.
Collars up!
Dark nights idle,
think up schemes,
prop up tyrants.
Bank prejudices,
at record low rates,
into a façade of strength.
Ca est la vie,
Such is our tumult!
Vested images,
towering edifices,
our future, cradled
by an imaginary past.
Watch our goose-step,
on lands well-tread.
Once lived, now barren.
Our inheritance,
like Mount Rushmore.
New tribe, newer symbols.
Shifting sands,
footing unsteady.
Leaning over the abyss,
poised, not tipping over.
Ears keyed in,
I wait for my call.