There is a jackhammer at our nation's foundation
The dust of morals being trampled under foot
By workers who scramble from fear of retribution
New beams to be set with a plumb-line-whip.
But there is a pickaxe raised also in my own house
And boots of hubris that tread through my wife's garden.
It saws with rusted words to clear space for new walls.
Building a fortress for me in place of our warm marriage home.
The hammers of violence that I blame behind our world
Even now drive the wedges into my own promises.
Though I blame a man formed by years of sooty machine motivation
Will I then re-form my axes into shovels to irrigate our garden?
