Cracked

I probably wrote this poem a year ago. Since it's obviously relevant, and might possibly prove my keen foresight in the hallways of high level financial circles, I offer this poem for the times, which by the way, has been slightly edited (the poem, not the times) from the first time around, hopefully for the better, but then again, I can't really say... :)
.
The banks folded one upon another,
Paper thin accordions so high and wide
it took some seeing before you knew
the little stash fund was buried from the bottom up.
.
I myself should have known--
a stern faced Brian Williams talked about the first takeover
on Saint Patrick’s day,
Forboding tucked between fact and fiction.
Concern tucked between dinner and dessert.
Tucked
Fucked,
Plum out of luck,
.
Visions and values now defaults and deficits,
Birthday balloons of a million little stashes
Falling to the ground after hours.
.
But that’s not what I thought then,
when I heard the first of it, then,
Even the tales of the great depression
Didn't catch my attention
until when the crack was so wide
one thing led to another
and whish- wash in magic time
my pockets jingled with counterfeit faith.
.
I cancelled my trips and catalogues,
collected certain coupons,
stopped my auto pays
and organized my closet.
.
Perhaps I could rebuild,
Unlike my neighbors
Who lost everything

wondering how the American Dream
got schemed and tamed straight to hell?
.
I’m walking into that Midwest bar at 4 oclock
the Sunday after Easter
announcing that I’ve torched my house,
watched it burn to the ground
just before I packed my suitcase
and headed here,
worthless and spent
just so I could savor an ice cold beer
free of the weight
of cracked expectations.