One Old Man to Another

My country, you are older than I am
and have succumbed
to an illness,
the name of which I don’t remember.

You no longer remember your youth,
those precious hours
when in innocence you dreamed of a world
where there were no poor;

no slaves to money, no greed,
and no need for war...
none of which, I am sorry to say, has yet occurred.

You don't seem to remember a world
made up of farms
with modest employment in crafts
and the use of barter.

Nor do you remember the wars,
civil and foreign,
numbers dead or what you fought for.

You seem to be lost in a fog
while your sons and daughters
demonstrate a visceral hate and the need to win

whatever there is to be won
as the chasm grows into a new Grand Canyon
between rich and poor,
those employed and those unemployed,
the rich and those in debt.

Now, the Grim grows near, reminiscent of other years
when windows had to be shuttered
to shut light in
and the world was caste into darkness.

It's not too late, though I grieve for your present condition.
What will be your fate:
senility, insanity or dementia?