A Dying Dream Poem by Bill Kamen

Blame it on bureaucracy or whatever,
but I've been waiting two years
for the abandoned house next door
to be torn down,
and the other five on my block.

The sounds of vagrant rodents,
squeaking,
hissing,
grinding,
and the stench of urine in the dark wind,
coming from the feral house next door.

Whenever a peal of thunder moves in,
it begins raining decay.
Lead from crumbling bricks, pealing paint,
drifts toward my windows.

It sickens me.
What can I do?
I have been robbed of
an American dream.