Dear America,
I can’t with you today
and I’m lucky I don’t have to.
You smell, for one thing. Like
sweat, fear, death mixed in.
It’s unpleasant.
I shouldn’t have to
smell that just to call myself
a citizen. You cheat
at duck-duck-goose
and granted it’s usually in
my favor but it’s still not easy for me
to see how you strike the geese
almost at random, almost. And
you’re so damn loud — louder
than electric blues these days,
louder than rock and roll — I knew
how to deal with loud
back in the day but this
new racket, I can’t hear
myself in there at all. It leaves me
a little bit upset.
I’m sorrowing a bit
over the way the night’s fallen
on you, on me.
Dear America,
I can’t with you today
and lucky for me I can
work from home and leave
the news off. I think it’s
terrible, how they show
these things and give people
ideas. I think
and I think, I really do, but
sometimes I’m in my feelings
and then I get lonely and reminisce
about how we used to be
together when you never
looked over my shoulder
to notice anyone else. How I long
for a return to your exclusive embrace,
America. How I yearn for
the sweet old smell of myself
on your collar,
the once-clean stripes
on our flag.