Lemonade & Godlessness

I paid my dues on the sidestreets today.
Between work and work, the lemonade vendors
Exploited me with promises of refreshment
And satisfaction.
There are no 8-year old pamphleteers here.
The Marxists have not yet penetrated the
Juevenile psyche, and funneled their voice
Through the children of Neighborhood America.

But the capitalists have.

and on hundreds of sidestreets and street corners
Around the country, budding entrepreneurs are screaming
LEMONADE! to the passerbys and leaning anxiously on
Their summer tables when the business is slow.

The tykes mix water and powder in Gatorade coolers
Left over from soccer season, and use plastic cups from
The barbeque collection.

Their parents write cute things like “College Fund”
On the Tupperware they use to hold the money,
So that passing geriatrics or other members of the
Customer cognizanti can laugh slyly at the clever kids.

The street is empty, for a moment, and the
Vigilante lemonade vendor kicks dully at the pavement;
His life has peaked in interest and rolled back again
Into the boredom that prompted his excursion into capitalism.
He thinks suddenly that it might be better if he had a sign at the end of the street,
and wonders if the advertising would pay off.
A car rolls around the corner and inspires an insipid
LEM-ON-ADE!
From the impossibly loud, mostly monotonic,
& ultimately uninspired, 8 year old.

I buy another cup, and wonder as he fills it up
If I could pull out a chair
and sit at the lemonade counter
Recounting troubles and toils
In the desert of the real.

But the boy’s mother has stopped washing the dishes now,
And anxiously, she looks out the window to see what kind of sketch-job
Won’t just get his lemonade, laugh at the “college fund” Tupperware,
And the hell on with his life.

The father comes down the stairs and begins repairing
A perfect part of the porch while glancing sideways at me.
He notes mentally my height, eye color,
Potential weight, and then assesses
Whether or not he can kick my ass.

Deciding yes,
The man starts up an awkward conversation
Coming down the stairs and brandishing his Home Depot hammer
As if he strikes nails and makes thunder
Proper Thor-style.

Another car rolls by and Trump jr. shouts his sale pitch
At the minivan.
I throw away my cup in the recycle bin,
And thank him for his hospitality.

I wonder if I’ll be able to get home without
Being jumped by another member of the Block Party for Profiteers
Hidden in the bodies of average American children.

I secretly hope that some subverted 11 year old,
Tempered with loss, exploitation, and a taste
Of bitter employment,
Will scream Communist propaganda as I take another sidestreet
On the way from work to work,
With a hindu desire to see some sense
Of harmony re-established on the all-too calm
American streets.