Signs of distress

Ever get the sense that America’s going downhill fast? Here’s a poem about that.

I leave the aging boomers
at the record fair
with five used CD’s
in my bag.

I drive home
along Lancaster pike:
fading outlet malls
cropped December fields.

I pass a giant sign
beside a collapsing
produce stand,
one lone giant name
desperate syllable
president terrible
babyman ignoramus
the lost cause defiant
sucker punch
in the eye.

I see a heavy
chestnut plow horse
in a pasture
standing tall
on strong flanks
urinating on
tufts of sorry grass —
power wash
gush
gallons
of piss.

Up and out of Gap
along the ridge
down to Coatesville
dead steel mill
stuttering facades
I’m looking for
an open Goodwill.