Detroit
A bent and broken figure.
Nothing but an aging hippy
Haunted by images of peace, love and kumbya,
Still seeking mystic Shambhala
Only to discover the rusted hulk of Detroit,
Sitting up on blocks, dripping oil.
All the while asking why and how?
So much. Too much. Such promise.
Our parents asked the same questions.
Now, generations on,
We’ve squandered all
That our parents built.
But wait a moment,
This is not my world, so mean and bitter,
Laced with hatred and mistrust.
Not mine.
I build my defences with words
As my shield and buckler.
To hinder rust’s advance.
Palimpsest 
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