I keep waiting for this place
to prove itself worth saving.

I pace the floor imagining
I’ve missed something

redemptive, something
of the frame work that hasn’t

gone rotten.  It sounds half-good
on paper, but how to separate the words

from how poisonously they’ve been used
and turned to awful ends so far — that’s

what puts the twist in my gut.
Maybe if we kill all the money 

the living words will dig out from under
that pile of death. Maybe

if we drive out the magicians
all their secrets will be laid bare

and no one will be fooled again.
Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe

if the whole unbalanced tower
wasn’t built on stolen land

and labor it wouldn’t be falling
on so many right now.  Maybe

it wasn’t built to stand this long,
no matter what the framers thought?

I keep waiting to find an argument
that it’s worth saving. I find

that the only person I’m arguing with
is myself, and I am losing; I can tell

by the sick joy I feel
that is starting to drown my fear.