We are guiltiest of idolatry,
lining our thoughts
with the currency of shortcuts.
Collapsed on the bed is the lover we worship,
the system we're used to. We are the deadbeats,
feet propped, happy with our long day's work.
"We do what we can for our families,"
is our patent-pending excuse, cupboards stocked,
Honduras and China on our legs and backs, our feet and faces.
We are the guiltiest of laziness,
ignoring the periphery when an arm strikes the windshield.
We are guiltiest of idolatry,
lining our thoughts with the currency of shortcuts.
We are guiltiest of the American Dream.
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