Timing

My timing is off
And I am disconnected
As if clocks aren't telling the truth
And my feet are stuck to the floor
Wooden pegs in concrete holes
Broken ankles twisting
Splitting splinters
Splitting skulls
Splitting,
Wooden pegs
Into the salt of this earth
Milling bone,
Into the fiber of America
And wearing it proudly
While we wash ourselves white with money
And spare change
Sparing change for a moment
Then letting it go
As we mill bone down to it's fiber
And wear it for what it is
Which  is America
And my timing must be off
And the hands must be liars
And the little hands follow
Because the cycles are turning
Becoming faster and leaner
And what was once rising is falling
And we pump fire into the mouths of children
Instead of holding their hands
And their hearts
We hold them tight against our broken bodies
Tight against wooden crosses
And perfect houses
Wielding mighty oaks and nooses
For them to hang their hats on
Pounding purpose
Pounding nails into their feet
So they cannot go


For One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry