Poetry is Good for America
In the morning I can occupy my soul
With the day’s reasoned, written work.
Then comes the middle of each day,
A quick break from the pretense of joy.
I can’t fill the potholes in my brain,
Wet with the afternoon rain of despair.
I can’t enjoy the evening journey home
To an emptiness that is there.
Women gathered.
Knowledge. Nappies.
They learned
Their places
Beside bedsides,
Machines, and graves.
Women’s wealth
Wasn’t worth
Ticking cloth.
They backed
Husbands and fathers.
In the war.
Some men returned
Bandaged or broken,
Whole, or not at all.
But when men
Come home, the
Women have to.
Riveting biceps
Industrial muscles
To lift laundry,
Bolted to stoves
As sure as sheet
Metal to planes.
The same nylons,
Sewn to save lives
Men parachute
Alive, lifted aloft
Gartered the girls
On the ground.
Before the men
Came home,
The women ran,
Barren or barefoot,
Lithe or lame,
But hunter-free.
Behind the walls
I want to sit alone
Behind the walls
Where no one visits
Where no one calls
Behind the walls.
Don’t take away
My hope, my dreams.
Don’t celebrate
Your faulty schemes.
Mistakes were made
When I was young.
My neck is broken
Now I am hung.