‘American Conscience, Pt. I’ 

I can hear the spirit of a small town 
In the steel strings of a guitar,
Playing at the local dive bar 
Strumming away, soulfully. 
Old man in the corner, tapping his steel toe boot wholesomely. 
After a long shift hanging sheetrock 
He tries to forget the day.
Sore lower back, but he never did say 
Body broken but his heart filled 
Along with his mug…gripping it with his weathered hand 
Belly full, too
After the laughter and a dozen wings 
With a dozen things to do tomorrow.
But he don’t care—
As he soaks it all in…
He reaches for his bulging leather wallet 
In the back pocket of his Levi’s
Happy to spend his meager, honest earnings…
And he leaves Honey a good tip, always 
For he knows she could use the money 
The funny thing is,
He likes to leave her cash…so she doesn’t get taxed
And she was thrilled and grateful to collect the bills 
The faces of our flawed founding fathers get stuffed in the darkness
As dead as the roads on the drive home.
Which makes me wonder how far we’ve actually come 
A twenty minute drive can seem far for some,
But to her it was just barely down the road…

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