Your own flesh and blood
Told you long ago
Something seemed “off”
About them.
They lacked some ineffable
Soul-stitch or hook
In their DNA, a calculating insincerity
At the heart of their actions.
Signals arose along the way,
Papered over with dollar bills,
And trips to the south of France,
Mexico, and Montana.
You lapped it up,
Smiling, tasting it,
Even if you detected something foul.
You just didn’t trust their trust.
They lacked soul in that Midwestern way,
Something to do with wagon trains
Headed west and Indians
Coming in for raids at night, taking scalps.
Everything is hunky-dory and “great.”
They will praise you and piss on you
At the same time and tell you it's raining.
When the morning comes, the wagons are gone.
Thank God you stick to the rugged granite outcrops
Of New England, the old town centers, the tradition,
Where we developed bullshit detectors over the centuries.
We know where we stand, particularly when we are knee-deep in it.
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