In the distance, outside the door to
your basement, a crowd
la-la's
the Star Spangled Banner.

All swirl-eyed, and promising water,
a circled-hiss, a lie.
Fox-headed, and painting Old Glory
onto his chest, to the amazement
of even the millionaires.

In a dark room, eyes roll back,
towards Wellesley. Eternally, hung
on the wall. The
patriarch, shaking the hands of
your grandfather.
Dreaming of the
late 1960s.

The mountain, surrounded by
clouds.
The Gods throw bolts, and
fireworks, at-You, through the
television set.

From the cinder, on the lawn,
of a house, on-fire and crumbling,
the kids
are catching flame.

And if all goes as planned then
the bonfire's a beacon,
we're not going anywhere.

We are the rocket's red glare.
Garnering hope from those
driving to work.
Hitting the light switch, to
see the results.
Trying to look for America.

Bernie 2016