As sun sets on the prairie
in Willa Cather's world,
A farmer and plowshare are caught
in silhouette, skyscraper size,
on the horizon.
Dreamscapes for generations:
A little boy saluting his dead father
as sounds of muffled hooves
pound hollowly on hard cruel pavement.
A man's silhouette with both hands raised
two fingers spread high,
“I am not a crook”
Empty words, as his helicopter leaves
the white house lawn for the last time.
Crowded hotel lobby,
more shots,
as the brother
collapses and blood
stains our memories.
A motel balcony,
shots ring out,
despair sets the night
on fire across America.
My generation haunted by fear and tragedy.
When joy triumphs,
we hold our breaths,
hoping it will not end,
out hearts afraid to feel happy.
