Boomers—
children of the Greatest,
born from rations and sacrifice,
from gardens grown in war-torn soil,
from metal drives and blackout nights—
their parents knew how to share a country,
to fight a common enemy,
to win not for one,
but for all.
And yet—
these children of victory
grew up in row houses,
drove a new Chevy every year,
took college on their parents’ dime,
bought homes in their twenties,
summered where the lakes still whispered
and the air still felt free.
They were handed a future
and sold it back to us
at twenty-two percent interest.
Now—
they bring us back to fascism
with a flag in one hand,
and a stock portfolio in the other.
We—
the debt-shackled,
rent-bound,
told to hustle, to pray,
to apply for affordable housing
like it’s a prize
instead of a life sentence.
They say:
We did it,
why can’t you?
But they never paid the price.
Their gods wear gold watches,
ride rockets to nowhere.
They kneel before billionaires
as if mammon were holy.
Remember—
the camel,
the needle’s eye?
You entitled architects of ruin,
your parents would not know you.
Your children do not want you.
You scorched the earth
so you could golf in winter
and warm your empty houses
with fire from the future.
We are ash.
You are the match.
I dream of my grandmother—
her apron stained with sacrifice—
asking me softly,
“Was it my fault?”
No, Grandma.
It was never you.
It was never them.
It was the wealth.
The sickness.
The myth of more.
The greed wrapped in red, white, and blue.
America,
you were never lost.
You were stolen.
By the worst generation
who mistook comfort for victory
and called it freedom.
April 23, 2025