150 Days after 11 September 2001
J. Quinn Brisben
The fix is wearing off. The flags are frayed;
The ones on aerials are almost rags.
The roaring mob dims down, retreats, and sags.
The cheaply colored window banners fade.
Distrust asserts itself once more, betrayed
By greedy guts in power. The uncaught quarry nags
But is not worth more deaths than all have paid.
The poor are out of work. The rich are graced
With interest on their bribes. The lying shout
That truth is treason and must be erased
By star wars, zapping cardboard cutters: rout
The swindled who resist another waste
Of sweat and blood for those with stolen clout.