We Murder Children In America

I suppose one of the most awful parts Of the annual American tradition Like this Is that from just after lunch Those 19 2nd grade children Must remain in school until the next morning With their parents sitting on parking lot curbs Just out of reach Screaming In the heat Of afternoon through dinner time And a typical softball game sunset The insects Chattering under the douse of stars Until a sunrise paints the rows of houses Pink And the streetlights shut off and re-set their cycles The children propped up in tiny chairs Or sprawled on the floor Crooked Bent out of shape like tossed cabbage patch dolls No longer hungry or thirsty or sleepy or cranky Or scared Pencil in hand comb in pocket ribbons in hair Maybe even a first crush frozen on their face A little handsome shirt A beautiful skirt Red sandals red tennis shoes red socks No one can change their pose of holes Until all the pictures and measurements are made And taken and filed away By vomiting uniformed strangers And this takes an eternity that will never shorten It always comes down to the janitors of society With name tags stitched over their hearts To keep the waste out of our sight So we may live on without the real images Boiled in our eyes Spoiling our good time Every one of us pulled the trigger And ran Ran for cover.