POETRY
It Turns Out That the Eagle is Just Another Kind of Bird
A poetic commentary on American ideals
I can get you whatever you like. Pie, maybe?
Coffee, that, like all material, is endless —
Didn’t you say you were all American?
I have a flag for you, or a gun, or a lie.
I can tell you the universe is the shape of your
comforts if you like. It’s infinite if you’re
claustrophobic. If you don’t like open space,
a projection. Just little white dots on a dark
ceiling. No need to imagine
any other place. You have everything right
here: ice cream or concerts or land with unlimited
surface area that doesn’t bake under gaseous
blankets. Here it is on a plate. You
don’t even have to tip me. And I’m happy
on minimum wage; to see that distant uncaged
eagle: plenty. Still, America’s bird
doesn’t caw like in the movies.
She makes steamed rivulets of sound
that will not transfigure to steel tracks
to ferry the bulk of our
history. But that’s no matter;
we can go West.
That’ll fix it.
