Migraine
There’s a drummer on my mind
all of the time. Pound for pound,
each boom
behind my eye,
a thunderhead looming.
Clicked sticks,
crack of lightning
through my skies.
Sadly,
this drummer is no talent,
the beat repetitive.
A heartbeat
stress, bills, yelling
every moment
a final notice.
‘America is dead’
How can a country be dead, if
it was never born?
Ideals of freedom, liberty
were never for every one.
Some were enslaved, told
they couldn’t be free.
Sung coded songs
on a trackless railroad.
Some with children tied to hips
staring out windows, called
to fill vacant jobs in war
refusing to leave, pushed back.
America, the idea
is alive.
It’s survived in you, me,
every dream.