The lights were on, so I looked
in the window. I saw Uncle Sam
in his torn underwear,
swilling cheap beer and scarfing a bag of chips.
The walls were bare, the furniture tattered,
Lady Liberty scrubbed the floor.
The 500 foot TV screamed lies and news,
but wait, aren’t they both the same?
Uncle Sam and Lady Liberty went to bed
that night while the Orange Haired Man
sat between solid gold walls,
ate from solid gold plates,
slept a dream of winning, winning,
winning, but still waking up to pee at 2 a.m.
just like the rest of the old white male electorate.
I couldn’t look into any more houses,
the tarpaper ones in Sugar Ditch Alley,
the crass towers of Fifth Avenue,
the white frame houses on Main Street,
or the national flophouse on Pennsylvania Avenue.
I went home and turned on all the lights,
tore off the roof and shouted to the heavens
for the sake of freedom, the gifts of liberty,
for deliverance from tyranny,
for strength to fight the evil night and win.
Paul R. Davis lives in New York state with his wife, parrots and cats He enjoys operating model trains, philately, gardening, and preparing meals with his wife. His work has been published in Latitudes, Poetpourri, Comstock Review, Comrades, Hot Metal Press, Georgian Blue Poetry Anthology, Many Waters, The Externalist, Centrifugal Eye, The Good Men Project, PoetryRepairs, Halcyon, Oddball Magazine, The MOON, and others. A simple inhalation and exhalation is life, and life itself is art. His poetic philosophy is: the joy of expression; the necessity of communication.