A Dirge Over the Sins of Andrew Jackson and Others

I wrote this poem last year on July 4th.  A friend of mine wanted me to post it, and I need to get back into writing poetry anyway.  Here it is:

Seattle suburbia feels like a morgue.
Yes, a morgue, not a cemetery;
this is no hallowed dead sanctuary.
It is a massacre
a genocide, and the only memorial
is the cities
named after those who died.
People say slavery was evil, inhuman,
and the grandchildren of those dragged
from Africa demand reparations.
Do not panic white folk!
We donated the desert
to the first American nations.
Land of the free; home of the brave?
By our forebear's aggression who is free?
me and you?
Those under their oppression
what can they do?
They can build casinos and make poor men rich.
They can kill deer, bear, and cougars.
They can drink alcohol
and toil on the land,
but it is hard to grow corn
when your soil is made of sand.
What have you done you liberal, white Seattlite
driving in your car
drinking coffee at the stoplight?
You practice justice by voting for light rail,
but your gentrification only builds another ghetto.
It seems the final solution was never let go
while you hate quietly inside your million-dollar condo.
Next time you wake up
remember who died
for your home's foundation:
Seattle
Tacoma
Snohomish
Issaquah
Sammamish
Tukwila
We live in an abomination.
A morgue.