Got to hit the road and try to find
My kind of America. It’s out there
Somewhere: not too crowded,
A farmer’s market weekly
At the time of day convenient for
Both the workers and the farmers.
People reading books. Bike lanes and
Sidewalks and garden boxes
Where brown and white
Mix happily as a twist cone.
Leaders lead for the sake of civic
Betterment, even if decisions
Break their hearts. Company:
Everyone enjoys company for supper,
And says hello to strangers passing by;
Dogs race off leash along
Lakeside paths: fathers carry
Their babies and change them too.
Family is nearby. Neighbors watch
The kiddos for a bit while
You dash to the shop for ingredients.
Everyone drinks tap, not bottled.
Little ones fill yards and
Driveways, tumbling from one to another.
Teachers call. Playground noise
Pollutes the air for blocks around.
Music, too, live from the gazebo,
And pouring from windows and bars.
Artists are worshipped, their
Murals coating every cement wall.
And voices, all timbres, volumes and pitches,
Sing out directions, angst, recipes,
And poetry like waterfalls.
