A Product of GM

What good is a broken refrigerator
Resuscitated on a regular basis
Only to slowly putter and die again
Killed by the perfect freezer atop its ivory tower?
It can't keep milk from curdling,
Vegetables from rotting within its rancid depths
And poisoning the unwary,
But the freezer with its ever-frigid air
Has never faltered, and as it beavers on
The coldness it collects clutters and chokes
The lungs of the body it rides upon.
I've watched strange men come and clear the ice
And the refrigerator come to life
A breath of fresh, cool, air
But sure as the frozen debris that litters my sink
Cleared from the icy realm where time holds no dominion
Will melt and spoil in a place so full of life,
The refrigerator will fail again as the freezer beavers on.

What good are these broken lamps
With crooked stands and flickering lights
Like the glow of embers in a still night
Winking into nothingness and forgotten
Or any light at all, for that matter
If all they can shine on is wreckage,
Scattered papers and ravaged books,
An untuned and ancient piano
That renders every tune unrecognizable,
An ancient house cat, once beautiful,
Now covered with matted fur,
And other debris of lives spent in futility?

What good is the queen of this domain,
Desperately trying to be proud of nothing,
Needing to be a mother?
She is a homemaker, a loyal employee, and an instrument of order
And yet her home is chaos.
It is a filthy hovel at best under her care,
Cluttered and reeking of urine and resignation.
At worst it is the end of the earth,
Expanses of the indeterminate dregs of wasted lives,
Piled upon themselves and compacted.
Oh mother, her children can't stand her
They resent her more than anything else for she made them
Cynical and weary of her world,
The only world she ever showed them.
What is good is the father,
Who does not deserve the title “king”,
Who could have been so much more
But worked two menial jobs for a decade,
Squandering his potential,
Taking his anger and frustration out on his family
Until now he has become almost obsolete?
Now he tries be useful again,
Unemployed and dying,
He monopolizes as best he can as much as he can
So that his passing will cripple the family
So that he will still be needed,
And so that he will be missed.

What good is the American dream
To the son of those who came to this country
So full of hope, potential, faith
And other such things that suckers are made of
Only to see the dream fail?

And what good is that son
For whom the parents will dare to dream again
Who doesn't even want to live for himself anymore,
Let alone let others live through him,
Who asks “What good is a home, is a family, is a life
To those who see only broken refrigerators,
Flickering lamps, shattered dreams,
Dying old men, and their own demise”
And other questions no wants to hear
Or answer?