By: Mike Gora
The lady in New York harbor stands upon her pedestal,
Crying tears the size and weight of boulders, as she
Gazes on her people from sea to shining sea.
The manifest destiny of the golden dream crumbling around her.
It’s Labor Day, 2011.
The stench of labor’s fruit lost and labor to be lost permeates
From New York, to Miami, to Chicago, Los Angeles,
And all points in between. Labor Day mocks reality, and becomes
A memory, rather than a dream.
Seeing all, as always, does not itself supply her answers to the questions:
How did this happen? Why? When did the quest for economic freedom
Turn into a rabid search for lucre? When did the promise of liberty and justice for all
Turn the rich against those less fortunate?
When did the purpose of our being, religious freedom, turn into only the freedom
To engage in one’s own religion, to the exclusion of all others?
When did it occur to the elderly that their bowl of long saved rewards of past labor
Had sprung leaks caused not by their own foolishness, but the greed of others, and the
Gross negligence of their elected representatives who, on this very Labor Day,
Would rather overcome political rivals than to solve the nation’s problems?
When did it occur to the younger generations that their birthright to
Freedom, liberty, and real possibility had been traded in
For fool’s gold by those who came before them?
Our harbor lady hopes: Perhaps this disease is temporary,
That the real America would rise again on the shoulders of new leaders,
Born from the ashes of the of theses disasters.
Politicians honestly pledged to do what’s best for the country
And not just for themselves, or a handful of narrow minded people with loud voices,
And agenda based upon greed and not upon the nation’s future,
Or the future of their fellow citizens.
The sun shines upon her face, and a smile almost appears. Faith, she thinks.
Faith in these good people that she was sent to celebrate. Faith and hard work, always
The key on Labor Day.