Dear Mr. President

Dear Mr. President,

Your rhetoric stones cannot block truths for too long

Is it too high to peek at the promise land?

Can you provide the shoes we’re supposed to climb with?

Or can we not afford it. So we’ll get left behind.

Mr. President!--

We think you’ve already reached the top.

Sitting with your back towards utopia, dangling your paws at our claws

You and those fat cats with golden brick pockets have climbed

the stones. Confused as to why you’re not weighted down.

But this is a country, where you promise gold bricks were white in sunlight

And red and blue in shade.

So we’re forced to stand in the shadows casted by a wall

On some grass we made greener.

Dear Mr. President? If you won’t provide the shoes

And someone has yet to invent the wrecking ball

Please just pass down a watering hole.