My America

A great golden America

with ears of corn

and fields of wheat

and great grassy meadows.

Railway trains that puff smoke into clear blue skies.

An America of lazy summer afternoons

splashing in hidden creeks

and lying on sun warmed rocks

dead to the world.

I dream of red farmhouses

and

battered pickup trucks

and

homemade pancakes

maple syrup

a shaggy dog,

a rope swing

a hot sun.

It smells of rain,

feels like grass beneath my feet

and tastes like apple pie,

and has all the things my America has.

But the dream is dead.

Buried in smog

and

fear

and

hate.