When the Smoke Clears
The fog of war
is lingering long on
these golden amber grain shores
In the bar,
in the synagogue
Count the missing fingers
in the high school cafeteria tomb
Tally the tiny toe tags
in the elementary home room
Feel another barrel blast
of rage eject empty
When the smoke clears,
wait nervously
for the next automatic weaponry
to fire breathe
Such is life in America:
Wealthy home of the brave,
beggarly land of the free
Daily tourniquets of death
is profit united
by the paid gun lobby
The deadly fog rolls along
the bloody asphalt
Eighteen wheels of chance
be always spinning roulette wild
Six shooter spitting triple digit proof
is a tempered slag romance
Chambers of commerce
tout the tourist numbers out loud
As the government buries each
gun violence study
under a redacted ink cloud
In the open concert air,
in the closed-eye praying
cathedral pew ... lead eulogies ain’t nothing new
Register those concealed mute ears
and deaf tongues,
which don’t security speak or hear
See how caliber turned blind eyes
have their moral vision
bank deposit casualties disappear
Shell-shocked citizens fear
another magazine blast of rage
is about to eject soul empty
When the smoke clears,
we wait anxiously
for the next impotent badge response
to publicly seethe
Such is statistical life in America,
where bullet violence is purchased so easy:
Bazaar home of the hot metal slave,
wretched land of the cold trigger squeeze
Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2018
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