foxed

they say don’t let a fox guard the hen house but
what if the hens become foxes and the house is a fox
too? i was raised in the land of happy meals
and participation medals, baked in the wry distrust
that only a pair of eastern bloc transplants could instill.
as a mushroom haircutted child, rules were law
but only at home.
punch the other children if they started it! nuns
lie! even at five
no authority reigned without reason
it’s madness
it’s gold lettering on my grandpa’s ticket to Auschwitz

we’ve been here before
oh the smiles and complicated phrases
oh the anger and fire
and what can we do
but link arms and never turn our backs on the fox
or each other?

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