Puppets

The American dream is nothing but.

Mother, father, and brother talking

Talking just after midnight

Underneath a sea of weary stars

Sheltered by a house of the old days

They’re talking of good

“Better things are to come”

Mother says assuringlly

The chains dragging

As she puts away the dishes

Clicking and sparking as she goes

Little brother playing with the ball and chain

Rolling the lead across the kitchen floor

Only to be drug a little further as the chain pulls him along

Father flipping the channels

On that old black and white television

Going to drink the precious water

But the water isn’t water anymore

The handcuffs tear a little more as he struggles against the strain

Big sister crying over the lost cause words

As she mourns the talk

The grave can only hold her back