Mr. Floppy

Once upon a high rolling hill
in a position of privilege and a state of power
men and women in peasants’ dress did plunder ¬–
power and riches long since pillaged –
what remained were building blocks
trucked away in loads
stone upon stone
was the grand and venerable castle dismantled
on roads north, east, west, south
the once supreme citadel,
seat of wealth, sumptuous feasts and beauty,
now a place of stark fragmentary remains,
did fly to land in hearth and home
to line wells and boundary walls
in an unintentional reversal of fortune
the government was finally sheltering people
giving to the public
providing warmth and comfort
nobody felt the years of oppression and deprivation were worth it
the pleasant outcome arrived too late
and the criminal bankrupters went free
taking everything that could be pumped into barrels
or transferred electronically – a land left deserted and dry –
today upon that high rolling hill
nobody will live
as if the sight of a toxic spill
a few misshapen rocks stay of the past
plaster dust and insulation interred in the dirt
a swarm of black flies and tangles of brush
there’s no cause for historical reflection
there’s no need to look to the future
I know it can seem sad, the loss
of status, the fall of the mighty
such noteworthy failure has even been called tragedy
especially when preventable if not for the fatal flaw,
undetected in the bellows, stoking a fire like cancer –
growing – mutating strong natural passions
into weak perversions
that thin the blood and sap the strength
even as the will remains,
but what consolation can I possibly offer?
There, there, America, these things happen.

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