If I had the power of Hitler’s army, Kayla,

my tanks would rumble across sunken asphalt

of your schoolyard prison,

and sweep you away to one of those neighborhoods

where sprinkler keep the bluegrass green

and little girls wear new

the dresses grandma brings from the thrift store rack.

I’d drive my tanks up the terraces of those pious men

who dole out pocket change and are saying,

“God helps those who help themselves.”

My tanks would circle your house, Kayla,

and you could sleep all night,

go to school without being afraid.

No one would stand you in line at the clinic.

No mean uncle would grind away your soul

against the rough ribs of a yellow mattress.


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