The Family Business
They smile like church people
front row teeth, polished shoes,
hands folded over gold-plated lies.
And America—
sweet tired America—
keeps mistaking volume for truth,
keeps mistaking a salesman
for a savior.
There are towers with names carved into them
like warnings no one read in time.
There are golf courses green as envy,
ballrooms glowing like kingdoms built
from unpaid invoices
and handshakes with devils
wearing silk ties.
The father stands at the center of it all
like a carnival barker dipped in bronzer and grievance,
calling every indictment a witch hunt,
every critic an enemy,
every law another thing
for poorer people.
Meanwhile the children circle the throne
with sharpened smiles.
One trademarks patriotism.
One sells certainty in little jars.
One hunts influence
the way wolves hunt soft animals in winter.
And the friends—
God, the friends—
they rise from the shadows of private dinners
and closed hotel doors,
laughing into champagne glasses
while contracts bloom like mold
behind the curtains.
Billions.
Not earned in the old way
with broken backs and factory whistles.
No.
This is the new American alchemy:
turn outrage into currency,
turn division into stock options,
turn flags into receipts.
And somewhere a woman works double shifts
under fluorescent lights
while a billionaire complains about persecution
on television.
Somewhere a veteran sleeps in his truck
while men born into marble bathrooms
speak of sacrifice.
Pamela Harris says that corruption is not only theft.
It is the slow teaching
that nothing sacred exists anymore.
That justice is decorative.
That truth is negotiable.
That if you are rich enough
you can stand in the middle of history
and dare morality to touch you.
But history always keeps receipts.
Even empires with gold curtains rot.
Even grifters grow old.
And the loudest man in the room
must someday face a silence
he cannot sue, brand, or bully away.
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