What’s more American than a mass shooting
Poem for Fourth of July
What’s more American than a mass shooting
on the Fourth of July
where the bottle rockets cry
like children running
through sprinklers made of blood?
My soda water tastes like a bomb pop,
and like that sweet cold confection
the can is painted red, white, and blue,
just in case I forget
where my tax dollars are spent.
The ghost of Oppenheimer
asks me to repent,
but even he stopped believing
in the possibility of salvation,
waiting for the sky to catch fire
upon detonation of the bomb.
Yesterday, they filled the potholes
in front of the mailboxes,
so that’s something
to feel patriotic about,
in this land of five dollar milk,
five dollar gas, and presidents
on trial for treason,
trading nuclear secrets
for election interference.
Really, what’s more American than treason?
The founding fathers would have thought
the light bulb was witchcraft,
and probably raped their slaves,
but I’ve got my two car garage,
and instead of retirement,
I hope someday to pay enough
into my hopeless 401k
to write the book about graceless aging.
In the meantime, my dogs are afraid,
so I give them pills that the vet prescribed
for anxiety during celebration.
