These are the pet goldfish we buried in the yard.
Our shoeboxes filled with potpourri and cotton balls.
Like some swing-set we watched decay until the city tore it down;
We are the witnesses of a great country that sat on a bogus wall.
We watched it fall and we watched it squirm
until the ambulance crashed into our car.
These are the pet goldfish, too many to count them all.
Each one had a name like Babel, Zoe, or Uncle Bob.
Our shoeboxes filled with shredded home loans
and fresh flowers for our sickly moms.
We are this country’s pet goldfish and we are floating upside down.
We are choking to death on the disease of lobby interests and insurance policies.
We are the rotting fish bowl until our government smells us in the streets.
We are the pilgrims and we ought to start screaming what we need,
or less we become the goldfish,
flushed to the open sea.