Where We Rent

We must hate our parents
            And ourselves
                        We Americans, driven

To erase all trace of our, and their, progress
            On the landscape. Each site, landmark, seen

As a blank canvas. What
is this need? Is each strike

of the wrecking ball an expression of relief or regret? Failure
or success?

Our hubris must
            Be bravado for the isolation
                        Felt by us all, masked

By blacktop tar and spewing cars, belching
            Backhoes. Abandoned cities and conquered farms. Past

Civilizations left their mark, indomitable
Signs of their culture, loves, treasures, wants, hopes.

What will archaeology reveal of us? Land wiped
Clean of history. Lives
Wiped clean of memories. Nothing

To show where we came from
Or where we went.

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This entry was posted on February 4, 2013 by in Poetry, Serial Addiction -- Your Weekly Read, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , .

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