They Call This America, Dont They? Poem by Eric Cockrell

the cum stained prayers
written on tenement walls,
where brown eyed girls, head held high...
wear poverty's drench,
backs strong and straight,
amid the pale cries of babies birthing.
roaches scatter, bare feet skim the floors,
empty cupboards whispering moan.
food stamp dreams, two days away,
they call this America, dont they?

the trailer wrecked, paper thin walls,
duct taped tile by molded tubs.
the broke down truck, the mailbox spills,
unemployed and out of time.
box fans on stolen power,
dirt faced children, starving dogs.
an American flag, a worn out Bible...
they call this America, dont they?

the old couple melting, tiny apartment,
before a black and white tv.
half filled pills, empty Alpo cans,
yellow tinged pictures on the table.
a phone that didnt ring,
before it couldnt ring...
the sound of bones grinding to dust!
dont make much noise,
who gives a damn?
they call this America, dont they?