the state of the country now
the streets still hum the same tired tune—
neon promises,
beer bottles rolling in the gutter
like broken dreams with barcodes.
everybody’s got a phone
but nobody’s got a pulse.
we scroll past each other
like ghosts in a supermarket aisle
looking for god between the cereal boxes.
the rich keep smiling
because smiling is tax-deductible,
and the poor keep hoping
because hope’s still free—
for now.
politicians shake hands
as if they’re testing the weight
of your wallet,
preachers pray on Sundays
and prey the rest of the week.
the poets still write,
not for fame,
but to keep from setting the place on fire.
and maybe that’s enough—
a few words in the dark,
a whisper over the static,
saying:
we’re still here,
damn it—
we’re still here.
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