As I look out my window onto the street
At the shivering crack dealer-
His wanton, narrowed face and hollowed grin.
Wondering if he sees the morning star begin?
Amidst a family of real diversity-
Black, Latino, hippies, weed,
And holy-rollers with Ennui.
He sits in the heartland’s Red Line Tap,
Tortured by the tv screen,
As a shadow of terror peeks out
From behind the news
Like a waiting predator
Beside Laura Bush’s placid face,
And questions all security.
With all I’ve gained and felt,
Am I found or lost?
As I gaze across the lake
And try hard to see
Past the gruesome, though politically correct,
And queer folk hypocrite preachers
Under drooping willow trees,
Amidst the cancers of extremes.