By Cliff Zyskowski
When the party’s over
black water oozes forth from tepid taps
in lesser towns across the land
as I pair my pinot with cherry-glazed roast pork
on a cedar plank.
When the party’s over
kids separated from their parents at the border
are left alone to defend their right to survival
as my son mulls over college apps and we hover over
the arrival of the latest 9er’s gear from amazon prime.
Drug-ridden rat-infested horrified homeless
light fires to their waste
in protest of 60-day tiny home referrals
with a lease option to enter rehab, therapy or worse:
To be blinded by the light searing the deep end
of rising tidal waters,
our planet a supernova filled with debris and malice
two degrees away from the King Midas touch of self-destruction.
My party still hangs on
as I adjust the hot tub’s jets
to chill the anger boiling over
a thousand creature comforts caressing my cloistered quietude.
My party still hangs on
as broken chips await the last of the guacamole,
401K up 7% since the last election,
cupboards stocked and belly full.
Yeah, I have solar panels,
I mentor a youth,
I docent at the garden.
It’s no longer enough
This land was made for you and me.
Look around, there’s room at the top for us all.
This land of the free, this home of the brave,
this time to rise up and take a stand for what’s right.
Will we march together, demanding
quality of life, liberty for all, flags waving high?
…the party carries on
Cliff Zyskowski is a Sonoma resident and retired psychiatric technician. We welcome your contribution. To have your topical essay of 350 words considered for publication, write [email protected].
