Foundations crumble; walls begin to sag;
The second story’s windows crack and break;
Once stable floors acquire a major tilt;
And basso rumbling wakes the family dog,
Who compensates by moving out-of-doors.
The contractor we thought at work just snores;
The plumber’s in Miami, lost in fog
Around a poker table. Without guilt
Or sorrow, everyone who ought to make
Our ruins whole decides instead to lag
Behind the storm, holding an empty bag
For loot. Our neighbors say that’s no mistake.
The perpetrators have already built
Our gutted, emptied houses, kept a log
Of their accomplishments: the many scores
Of dead communities. And who abhors
These politicians’ work? The polly-wog
They leave behind to swim the national silt,
And breed a new tomorrow, builds an ache
Instead for long lost lies: the hallowed flag
Across a cemetery’s entry arch;
The ghosts of Gettysburg; a funeral march.