Sweet Land Of Liberty

Our military camps have no names now.
They hold their breath.

Soldiers form a center line
for politicians to choose sides.

The parade ground is a warm blanket
thrown over cold shoulders.

A steamy day suffocates
onlookers in the grandstands.

The narcotics of despair
blister the service branches.

There are no extraordinary renditions
of Portland protesters that we know of.

A red rush of toxic words
requires a translator

as we pull the dirty bandaid
off of old wounds.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

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