Cross Hairs
Gnashing razors foamed at the neck
tearing flesh from
the innocent,
the boy cried wolf, red graffiti on white snowy canvass
no one listens.
Cross Hairs pinpoint on
timid mannequins in the display screen,
a shooting range
for the hard working force
of fathers and mothers
providing for their
kin.
Their faces cry out
porcelain tears
dripping,
everyone agrees,
political eagles (scavengers) circling overhead
yet nothing happens,
the point of Lincoln’s gramophone on repeat
in the Whitehouse.
