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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s