The malaise of the depression

swings from a long black coat.

Wind flapped duster tails,

and his hat pulled down low.

Sailing hands fly suddenly

in deadly circles, hurling graves

as machine guns blaze.

Quells the ravenous republic’s hunger

for a hero, swooping down, the majestic hawk

from the clouds with the succulent

worms and sad stories of battles,

corpses, and conspiracy to the

open trembling beaks.

Slaughtering the whole hog,

and laughing from the mud pen.

Manic and frenzied mad hatters.

Hoover’s minions, peering through

the eyes of a random helpless god

In a fine tailored black suit.

Dry and dusty throats mute, stumbling

through the American dream and watch

as the teller dies and dreams fade.

His voice scratchy like 32 ounce wind proof wool

“I’m not here for your money, just the bank’s,

put your wallet away.”

Gravel weary, grizzled and bleary,

the eyes of an era; the eyes of opportunity.

Roll credits and flickering frame in a dark theater

on an award winning newsreel.

Death came all the same.

Closing the chapter, the book

and the eyes of John H Dillinger.