Inhabitants of the Great American Suburb

having forgotten

they are born angry for a reason,

never touched

by the blunt finger of evil

in war or by nature,

grasp gladness with a hardy handshake

believing it is fully earned


There’s nothing they can do

about an archbishop arriving

at the cathedral steps in a stretch limo

in the capitol of a Third World country,

compliments of El Presidente;


about masked men with uzis

stalking small boys foraging

through trash cans at night

in the barrios of their birth

or ravens dining on a delicacy

of human eyes after a landslide

downhill from a mining camp


Nothing at all


And having forgotten

that joy only inhabits a just people

they travel tranquil neighborhoods

in large silent cars

blissfully insane