Even on a Cloudy Day

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.