American Rainstorm

Money fell from the sky, trickled down the rooftops of the rich.
Cold, hard, cash clanged on the sidewalks and watered the oak trees with budding dollar bill leaves.
People opened their umbrellas and held them upside down, collected the coins in them.
The fruits of capitalism rained down on the country.
Everyone was there to enjoy.
But after every storm comes a drought.
Rain collection buckets and piggy banks dry up, families scrounge for lost quarters under couch cushions and in gutters.
The wealthy emptied their swimming pools during the storm so they could fill.
Now they swim everyday, gleaming smiles reflect in the nickel.
Their pocket change could change the world, but instead of giving it to the government for the people with none, they put it “back into the economy.”
Buying gadgets the same price as feeding a family is what will really help them, the capitalists say.
But ever since the sun chased away the rainclouds, only pennies have trickled down the rooftops of the rich.

This poem is about: 
My country

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