The neighborhood kids are hoarding
leftover bottle rockets, I just know it.
They are preparing a final assault
on the suburbs. Good for them.
The rest of us, it seems, are going
down without a fight, overcome
by our own relative misfortune, misinformed
by a riddle of political advertisements.
My own final assault is only a conviction
to vote for the lesser of two evils
and to remember, lots of people have it worse.
Having drawn perspective like a sword,
I leap to charge. A bottle rocket sails
over the neighbor's garage, pops,
then falls to the earth at my feet.
Even well armed, I am not optomistic.
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