Welcome to Marlboro Country
where
smokestacks leave a dreary,
grey encrusted sky.
Lead envelopes the haze
as silver lining to a cloud.
And all the tiny puppets
line up and take their turn,
flying high through the smog,
twirling and spinning
but land disheveled;
Broken.
And get in line again.  

They watch from tall windows,
each a suit and a grin,
their malevolent faces
show thoughts from within.
Wealth over health over morals over
Death.
Greed even trumps their daughters’ last
Breath.