Post-mortem for America (a poem)

I really must pay less attention to the news…

There is no feeling serene

We can carve out pockets of bliss
bubbles of truth
and satellite sounds

but we have to leave the house sometime

was a luxury
we wanted to afford

a priceless artefact
we felt good about owning

so we could move about the world
always knowing that
we had Hope
to come home to

The fuses have been lit

We can hear the sizzle
feel the crackling
all around us

We don’t know
where or when
the bomb will drop

It doesn’t matter

The anticipation is killing us

used to be a place
above the clouds

or a lush, tropical island
of sand, shells, and palm trees
surrounded by calm, blue seas

But now we know
that Paradise is really
the absence of whatever this is

We will try
to keep Hope
close by

We’re going to need her

(11 January 2017)