Dante anteceded Don Quixote
when he probed the depths of hell.
Each circle brought him deeper
through the deadly sins of yore.
Sweet wife of George, not Beatrice,
centers the life I lead,
and while she slept profligacy
managed to reemerge.
America’s sad tale
of take and take
from the labor of the
hoi polloi whose
every bead of
Prometheus’ brow betrays
the never-ending toil.
The slave of history echoes now
And the woman weep over
children’s graves, beseeching and begging
when the new deal is not saved.
You break the broken people,
And shatter them with
your trophy elephant tusk.
You wear a libertarian crown in
this land of the hypocrite
and home of the troll.
Your greatness is gilded
with poverty’s stain.
America, America,
you preen upon the hill
with undue pride and vanity.
The troubled heart –
when deafness roars,
sweet charity
we know no more.
12/2017
Anne's mediocre poetry 