the fake and the real

It appears now, from up close,

that these palaces are fake.

the faux colorful arabesque engraved

ceilings,

the enormous, but worthless sparkling

chandeliers

dangling like rotten fruits somehow

unable to detach from the tree, like

worn out shoes tossed on a wire,

the imitation marble walls and

floors,

the gilded door knobs and bathroom

faucets.

they all looked swanky from afar.

It appears now that they are

cheaply made, hollow to the touch.

their imperfections glaring to the eye

like an over-broken, festering love that

can no longer be mended, a blackened pile

of snow on the side of the road thawing

under the sun as if it were never white.

fake ponds,

their water greenish and heavy,

surround these fake palaces.

testimonies of the vanity of their previous

uncelebrated owners. And yet

cavorted by new lords.

In the middle of one of the ponds,

a fake yellow duck and

its fake yellow ducklings, tossed

by an American soldier, float.

the misery is true.

people are swaddled in it and those

born into this life, laugh about it.

and the dust grinding between your

teeth.

real.