The Last American Dreamer
Lisa Taylor
Nestled down in a brown easy chair
he watches the television.
Face solemn, round, and red.
Grey sweeps over his balding head.
Dark eyes that used to shine,
now are dull from disappointment, and
sag with the weight of optimism.
He's the last American dreamer
and he's dying or dead.
Suburbia's no place for you.
Not here, where Jones meets Jones
in an unending battle for equality.
Did you know it would be stucco, stucco and those lazy afternoons aboard ship,
your eyes transfixed
on the never ending horizons of tomorrow? Would you have jumped ship
had you known it would be stucco, not brick? Dreams of white houses with green trim, two car garages, a picket fence.
How do you compare
how do you compare to a
white stucco house and a
car full of kids.
Few men are left who still believe in
love, duty, an honest day's work.
The last Mohican
wandering through a desert of
unfulfilled dreams.
He is tired, weak, but dreaming.
He is the last American dreamer
and he is dying or dead.
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