I Hear America Crying

 
I hear America crying, the muffled cries I hear,

 
the worried cries of drivers along city streets and country roads,
tension of black hands gripping steering wheels,
the flash of blue lights in the rearview mirror,

the exhausted crying of laborers with calloused hands
that scrub floors, hold mops, grip tools,
hours that grow heavy with the weight of work unending,

the moaning crying of well diggers, oil riggers, miners, blacksmiths,
knuckles worn to the bone as they unearth and create
goods they will never afford,

the grinding, rattling crying of mechanics
beneath hoods, underneath vehicles,
oil-stains lasting longer than paychecks,

the painful crying of fishermen and butchers and farmers,
massive ships and farms and warehouses full
while their families’ cupboards remain bare,

the cries of the weary,
working two jobs, three jobs,
building debt instead of wealth, uncertainty instead of security,

the crying of the mother, of the young wife, of the sweatshop girl,
supplementing paychecks of the rest of the family,

even cries from the wealthy, reaping the benefits of others’ labor
yet watching their portfolios disagree with their intentions,
falling and making them feel poor,

each crying with breath broken
beneath the weight of American dreams deferred,

crying for what they wish could be
a joyful, melodious song.



Blue Collar Orange

 
I wore blue all my life,
to shield, to serve—

the weight of my badge
an anchor I let dig too deep.

I’ve pinned down criminals before,
voices thinned beneath me,
beneath the law, the rule, the authority.

Sometimes they struggle,
fight the power,
resist the law, the rule, the authority.

Situations escalate, egos inflate,
sometimes theirs, sometimes ours.

It’s my duty to press harder,
to enforce the law, the rule, the authority.

Blue fades to orange,
badge traded for bars,
conviction my new shade.

Me, now raw as the men
I’ve pressed into cold streets,
another victim of the law, the rule, the authority,

locked up
but still breathing.