You Call This America!

morning splintered,
justice stinks like the
dried blood on the concrete walls
of an abandoned building.
you call this America!
lives wrapped in color,
in calloused hands.
standing in line
for a loaf of bread.
a bullet, a token,
a fresh covered grave,
you call this America!
you wear your god in sunday best,
throw words and prayers
into a bottomless well.
afraid of your shadows,
you arm yourselves,
you call this America!
the hands of take flex
and shout...
while dirt faced children
stand with mouths agape.
mothers die, and brothers are killed.
sisters sold on the block
beneath colored lights...
you call this America!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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