Do we know what democracy means
and do we care, like we care about the price of eggs,
the uptick in the cost of milk, bananas, beer, gas,

the cost of a kitchen table covered in red-and-white
checked oilcloth, where my parents sat, years ago
calling our democracy an hypocrisy as they plotted

revolution, until their ideals turned to dust,
because all systems turn in the hands of man,
disintegrate into money, greed, the need for power.

What’s this thing called democracy?
my father asked every year at election time—
they’re all capitalists wearing different-colored ties.

We watch now as our precious democracy dwindles,
watch the newscasters’ words scamper across the screen,
some tearful, others gleeful—as divided as our country.

We watch as oligarchs dine on corporate buffets
watch as congress yawns while we the people roll our eyes—
because all that they say are lies. But are we lying, too,

when we say, this is not who we are? Is it not who
we’ve always been? Many still hate that a black man
was president and would never vote for a woman.

We look at ourselves through glasses that distort—
we’ve lost our way, our moral compass in disarray.
Watching the recent barrage of events, I fall silent

with the knowledge they were right, my parents—
they foretold a truth we see in the story now unfolding.
Storms drained the swamps, uprooted trees—

now naked roots claw the sky, and the price of eggs
grows more important than those lonesome words
we once celebrated—freedom, equality, democracy for all.