One wills

into the American experience

a narrative that we probably

won’t agree with.

 

My Granddaddy fell asleep

in a patio chair. I was playing

with crickets and cicada husks

by the Oak tree. When I tried

to wake him, he didn’t stir. 

I thought he was dead. 

 

The mind of a child wills 

into the American experience

a narrative that reality probably

won’t agree with.

 

Where then is the weight of will

if not in the hearts of good men

who also bombed Cambodia or 

robbed that bank or

drank to divorce?

 

This game of Jenga that is the

American Dream will topple

and fall just the same as love

and all things that come together.

 

Life is just teacups and saucers stacked atop each other waiting

for the last breath of the last man

on Earth.