Inhabitants of the Great American Suburb
easily forget
they are born angry for a reason
Never touched
by the blunt finger of evil
in war or by nature
they 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