At the Crossroads
America wears an expensive gray suit
frayed at the cuffs,
red silk tie stained
scattershot of dark spots.
America clasps your hand firmly, smiles
gleaming teeth like iced-over ponds,
eyes flat dark stones;
your palm released to a slick of grease
you long to wash away.
America calls you buddy,
calls you miss or ma’am
the words smooth and bitter
working their way through the cage of his teeth.
Your gaze wanders
but the pink snake of tongue calls you back,
flicks lips stretched into snarl or smile—
for America it’s the same thing.
He says I’ve got a deal for you—
pulls out charts and polls, spins graphs
like prize wheels at the fair—
look what you can win:
pink plastic girls
with stiff limbs and painted smiles,
a handful of chipped coins
that buy nothing but another ride
on his claptrap carousel.
Here, America presses a gun into your hand
cold and heavy as a last breath,
says You can do it,
tells you it’s your right
breath hot in your ear
rank like meat that’s turned,
hisses You deserve it,
and something—
spit, the forked tip of his tongue,
a fang—grazes your neck
and you pull the trigger
unsure until that final blast
where the barrel is pointing.