This is My Country

This is My Country

This is my country: well-dressed, unimpressed passers-by.
This is my country.
I don't mind.
This is my country:
You want free bagel?
    It's free.

This is my country: hear it.
It sings frustration and anger
and, on a good day,
sings
'Howdy, Neighbor, Howdy!'
and shares water color conversations
 over glasses of lemonade.

This is my country:
pleas, prayers, and anthems.
This land is your land and mine
and theirs,
owned and operated by
businessmen
and their hired labor.
Sounds equal.

This is my country:
sidewalks trod by
many generations of
my country before.
 A dollar to the minstrel boy.
   Keep the faith.
   Thank you.

This is my country,
divided 50 times over
and sub-divided evermore;
red on blue.
Neighbors nervous to say hello
cut glancing eyes away,
look down and walk on;
dog-tired dirty bums
greeting anyone who sees them;
   angry homeless men with their dogs
 tired of being ignored, wanting
 someone to look them in the eye;
someone who looks past their demeanor,
to find them at their aching heart.
This is my country: hoping for justice,
believing in freedom,
forgetting community.

This is my country:
a pulse
that quickens and slows
and forgets so quickly,
distracted, that
i need you to hope for me,
and, you need me to hope for you;
forever waiting
for Tragedy to remind us
that we are not so different;
that we are together always;
that we need to slow our egos
and entitlements
and quotas,
and take a little time
to share a glass of lemonade.