The Real Problem

Our solution had class.
Our solution had so much class 
its jumbotron said CLASSY
in neon green, twenty-five feet high. 
Our solution had a quesadilla press. 
Our solution had a V8 Hemi.
Because our solution had a hammer, 
everything looked like the problem.
People blindfolded and spun 
dizzy by our solution pinned
the problem on our predecessors. 
We regretted to inform people 
our solution came back more 
addictive and contagious
and toxic than the problem, 
so we didn’t. Instead, we said
There’s a problem so long and loud 
that people saw, though we thought 
they didn’t know the problem
from a hole in the ground.
We threw plastic bags and pesticides 
and denials in the hole
until it became a real problem. 
Our solution threw money around, 
other people’s money, of course.
We said They don’t work
of other people’s solutions
after we cracked their kneecaps 
in freak pickaxe accidents.
The hole’s ammonia and sulfur smell 
came from untapped gas reserves




or hell. When people fell in
with a helpful shove, we shoveled 
our solution over them and said 
This is the hill you picked to die on? 
Our solution hoped the people 
could still tell up from up-and-up. 
Our simple solution, gut solution, 
populist outsider solution,
our solution that contained a hole 
within an even deeper hole.

Read more from Issue 17.1.