To The America
wading soft tar on the long roads to the gas station
where you might see an Iraq veteran
with an alloy leg raise the prices on the sign
dwarfing the 10 year old sniffing gas
from his finger tips, next to the Buick
with the woman in the pearl button sweater,
who hides her purse when a panhandler passes
and bumps into an old man backtracking
towards the facedown penny in a puddle
beside the food stamp lost by the
jaundice faced woman, who spent fifty dollars on
lottery tickets in the convenience store
where the clerk hurries to refill the bait money
before the black man in a hood enters.
If you see this, you’re probably lost
Because you’ve already been here.
