This is the nation, extending to the beach from the sewer, with pictures of flowers along roadsides as dogs wait to go out. This is American to the extent, but only for those who have written thru their troubles, to the top of their lungs from the bottom of their heart. This is an arrangement that even surprised, because a sentence was involved. It was made from the way poems come to earth. We seem better now for having tried.
Yet dearest, the wind won't always blow our sweat away. Curled up in a doorway is one way, or the forest duff is a nice reminder. Or could we just extend the moment to some musical phrase of having all the time in it? What are factions when they dry in the sun? What is change when we have hand holds? The time seems 'right', yet margins grow thinner. What smoke is, we are.
Plain America, the regent descriptor, fans the breeze into corners. Workers unite, make right, stop on the street to talk. The story stiffens because a poem doesn't owe. We cherish because we can, but that doesn't make it right. It, as in everything, wins languour and parlance. Flowers everywhere, and season, and a makeshift home on the sidewalk: these are part of the picture. Dog sleeps, cat sleeps, cigarette burns. Something about memory makes us change the news. We then grab pizza, then pizza grabs us, then something more mundane, like attitude, takes a try. Across the street, someone else, always.
