Poem #72

They don’t make miracles in America.
The factory is shut,
The work force brutalized by dark-eyed ogre cops.
It smells forever like autumn in the
Basement where the boxes of our best days sit unremembered.

The chair reclined too far,
We fell on the ground, broke our nerve.
Hens jab the dirt for crack corn,
Find pebbles, embrace solace in disappointment.
But hey, full bellies and weight.

When I was five I broke the tv turning the channels too fast,
The picture never came back.
Only a far off green dot
entertained my naïveté about finding something solid to catch on
in the vast electronic dark.

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