Petulant young politicians
fresh from a strategy meeting
about how to spin the government shutdown
file past the continental breakfast table
at the local Motel 6
snapping shut their Samonsite attaché cases
wiping oat muffin crumbs from their seersucker suits
while across the street
at the local cemetery of dead dreams
within the sprawling assemblage of contentious corpses, casualties of a full metal civilization
fresh from a blue-plate special
are picking up refuse
with nails driven into tips of old rake handles
spearing with imperial vengeance
plastic wrappings and paper cups
agitated by irascible winds of change
chasing them across great sweeps of marble-studded grass
following them along the putrid streams of spongy gutters
as they spill into open graves
waiting for the next debt-ridden customer
(perhaps one of the politicians
at Motel 6
his cholesterol medicine).
The men in baggy pants
clutching their rake handles
festooned with collapsed styrofoam cups
and Chuck E. Cheese and Happy Meal coupons
stare with empty eyes
at the abandoned chapel
across from the fenced-off precinct
that’s reserved for the granite vault of some corporate big shot.
In front of the doors
chained shut by despair
a communion chalice sits
on a lawn chair
beside a coke can and bagel crust
filled with particles of lost hope
as well as dead leaves and dandelion fluff.
In the distance someone plays a trumpet.
Para citar este artículo: McLaren, P. (2013). An American Scene. Iberoamérica Social: revista-red de estudios sociales, I, pp. 20-21. Visto en: http://iberoamericasocial.com/american-scene/.