Why can't I believe that good will come of this?
I can't see hope, only circle upon circle of sorrows,
despair among the newsclips, scattered blindly
like yellowed tabloids littering the ground
underneath the unseasonable snow.
Festering in thaws.
Anger and hatred in tightening coils, springes to trap us,
podiums for fledgling demagogues and warmongers.
History, cyclic, spiraling angrily into no sort
of an end. Where is the falcon and the falconer?
No end. Only a continuation. Nothing is new here.
Not the horrors, nor the mistakes. Not even the pride,
taken out of the closest, carefully kept holiday best—
washed quickly, bleached and pressed and tossed on.
Quick, before mother gets home for the holidays.
Take down the posters, hang up the flags.
The only booming business, selling cheap flags.
Made with pride in the USA—they fall apart in a
few days and are duct taped together in the end.
Watch your mouth child, don't say anything
against the stars and stripes.