Smokestacks, carnations and ill-fitting suits
Dust in gold leaf, hairspray-sheen plastic fruit
Billionaire promises lie on heel and crown
There’s a darkness on the edge of town

Burnt rivers, burnt towns, burnt fields
America Foreclosed Makes Great Again®
Bankers — factory closers — knead their newest Reagan
Her scorched earth harvests quarterly yields
Tell her this is how fem’nism feels

Investing meaning back to our lives, see
Illusions for what they are
And so go reach out, censured Walker Evans
Touch a starched fabric of reality done scarred

Drapes haggard on windows drawn tight
Door locks and lost keys, marital rites
Forearm fractures, undone sash
Hand guns, rags in gasoline
Corn muffins, baked beans and sour mash

Hides yellowish bruising, black unseen

Wealthcare, opioids and cigarettes
Back gate banging louder yet; Camaro won’t start
Lazy, worthless he grins, she’s late for work at ten
County check, utilities, past due again

Promises, promises, fake news parting way
Her Government vouchers are showing out of date
They sneer God’s reserved great for the chosen few
But even now, “I can’t believe what you say”
Baldwin fleers, “Cause I see what you do”
For wanting things that are only found
In the darkness on the edge of town