Every Year or So in America

We've no memory at all of Paul,
Who shot up the shopping mall.
A skinny kid who rode a bike?
Someone too smart for us to like?
A boy who word seemed not to reach
Of kegs and sex down on the beach?
He left. Nobody saw he had.
Then he returned, and this is sad,
Nobody cared, and he decayed.
He bought a rifle, and he made
Some bombs he'd use, someday, to flay
Suburbanites, who turned away
From him, and, look, it seems he did,
And matron, husband, little kid,
All lie in spreading pools of red,
All die, and Paul, the papers said,
Is satisfied. What should we do?
We want to kill him. This is true,
We'll cite the statute, and we'll claim
We murdered him in murder's name,
And we will be relieved of Paul,
The twisted boy, of whom we have
No memory at all.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 14 times
Written on 2012-07-26 at 01:12

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