Amerika, with a K

Photographer unknown

Amerika, with a K

I saw the best freedoms of my generation

handcuffed by convenience,

dragged down Main Street in dress shoes,

apologizing to the cameras—

Lady Liberty!

barefoot and trembling 

in the fluorescent aisles

of twenty-four-hour outrage marts

where choice is infinite

and consequence is on backorder.

Amerika,

you didn’t die screaming—

you died agreeing to the terms and conditions

without reading the soul-print.

I heard freedom coughing

behind the courthouse vending machines,

spitting blood into a red-white-and-blue napkin,

saying it’s nothing, kid, just a cold,

while drones hummed lullabies overhead

and the flag learned to wave without wind.

We traded the fire for a screen,

the soapbox for a comment box,

the commons for a feed

that refreshes amnesia every six seconds.

The poets were still talking—

god bless them—

but the words were drowned out

by pundits in thousand-dollar suits

selling fear by the pound,

and patriotism in childproof containers.

I saw dissent shrink

until it fit neatly into protest zones

outlined in chalk and permits,

rebellion sponsored by the same banks

that financed the locks on the doors.

Amerika,

freedom didn’t get shot—

that would’ve been too honest.

It got audited,

rebranded,

and quietly laid off

with a severance package of nostalgia.

Now it haunts us—

a translucent thing

standing at the edge of the crowd

during halftime shows and elections,

mouthing, remember me?

And we almost do.

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©2026 Christopher Reilley 

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Shared with DVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night

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