The First Americans


by Larry Bowers

Children crying, smoke is rising,

Smell of whiskey in the air.

Relief check coming,

Widow thumbing,

Through her tickets for the fair.

Another day on the reservation,

Remnants of another nation,

American genocide,

That we don’t try to hide,

Is a scar on the face,

Of our creation.

Old dog growling, Coyote howling,

Pale moonlight shining down at night.

The once proud bands, Who roamed these land.

Now stuck in a terrible plight.

Another life on the reservation,

Constant pain and aggravation.

American genocide,

Slow death or suicide,

Is the only logical cure for the situation.