There’s this perfect little spot
along the coast
Where, if you walk on down to the water
on the other side of the sand
There’s just this peaceful lull
of the tide.
The sky is overcast
and grey.
A pale mist clings to the air.
Few tourists venture out
on a day like this.
It’s cool, yet not cold.
I like it this way.
There are seagulls and sailboats
in my view.
To the right,
a silent Ferris wheel sits.
A pier jets out its lonely finger
to pierce the crashing waves.
A girl walks by.
Out of nowhere
my troubles seem
to disappear.
How could you not
love this place?
Then, as a white sun
pushes its light through
the soft blanket above
with its perfect pupil
looking down,
it reveals another face
in the thinning crowd.
A hard lined one,
brown and aged
with labor
carrying a basket of fruit
on her head.
She offers pineapples
and mangos
and “Buenos tardes,”
as she goes
and it feels warm
and friendly
… for a moment…
With the coming light
it dawns on me…
This is America.
We’re not like that here.
Surely there must be
something illegal
to this stroll on the beach.
Whether it be the cigar in my hand,
or the sliced melon passing by …
This is America - full of laws to break.
How can anyone here be illegal?
We’re all illegal,
right on down to our genetic patterns
soon to be patented
by Monsanto
so that my very life
can become the property of
another.
Only in America.
Where your innocence
and guilt is determined
by the size of your wallet
of whether or not you’re an owner.
As if deed and door
makes any one better
than another.
We’re all equal under the sun,
even on a cloudy day.
