AMERICA, MY LOVE

 

I love to walk barefoot on the

Fourth of July. The harsh shades

of patriots and beach umbrellas

foreshadowing the imminent

peeling of skin, it is easy to bleach

the sheets between my thoughts

and savor the scent of scorched

burgers and freshly-cut grass. I

slip into some someday-president's

memories of fireflies and falling

sun, and stroll through the back-

yards of suburbia with a smirk of

something like irony (or maybe

magic) as I break into a run at the

sight of your open door and shut

the calendar, trusting for the first

time that this is my home, nestled

between your arms and two shining seas.