It's been a while and this poem is rough--but, here goes.
This one's dedicated to Brittany, who's return has spurned my return.

I suppose the American Dream is dead,
(it has been for awhile as time flies by)
and now we're just working to keep "the man" Fed.
Buying a house is like a pipe-dreamed smoking lie--
(in California, it's all but a dream, it would seem)
because who can afford the prices, on workingmens' salaries?
Six figures is what it takes to tempt the dream
(amidst long hours, multiple incomes, and daycare fees).

I suppose the California Dream is dead.
It is no longer that place, where the have-nots go, to find their dreams;
it is the place where the have-nots now flee and dread;
where $15 an hour won't even meet a couple's basic needs
(and the monthly apartment rents hover somewhere around a thousand,
while house prices are two to three times the national average).
And, for all the talk about affordable housing and urban-renewal trends,
million dollar houses keep being built on cities' outer fringe.

If the majority of the population is at all lucky,
they'll have a house in time for their grandchildren to come visit.
That is, if the fragile economy doesn't tank into obscurity,
and the world doesn't tire of our government's hypocritical shit.

But,--even slaves can dream.