I Am America

I am America, and I have lost my soul.

I hid it under this bushel for safekeeping,

but when evil sucked dry and despair rose, I went back to find it;

and there was a gaping hole where a soul should be.

***

I am America, and I hid my best treasure

while investing in trinkets and bangles and flat-screen fiction,

ignoring the gaunt hungry by the side of the road,

supposing that anyone capable of making such a lovely sign

was surely capable of holding down a job.

At least, that’s what I’m thinking in my stinking rich car

with my skinny latté and my skinny jeans.

***

I am America, and I need a hero to find my soul.

I hid it under this bushel for safekeeping,

but when a wet horror-cry echoed and I remembered its worth,

in that dearth I knew perhaps I was lost.

For we kill our heroes, our Lincolns and Kennedys and Kings,

and we bury our truths along with our homeless;

and senseless though it seems,

we exchange the good  for the decaying,

and virtue for diversion, and in the process

risk losing it all.

I am America, and . . .