I like smoky gray-green and copper, clean kitchen rags,
short shorts and folded legs. I like boxes from Indonesia
and Buddhas on the windowsill, a cat outside who’s sitting still.
I want your mouth, the curve of your back, the contents of your wine rack.
I want Blossom Dearie for a month in the Beat Hotel
listening to “The Hustler” by The Sonics on a perpetual loop
and not spend another minute thinking about the government.
In Italy everything shuts down in the afternoon and
the people snooze or deal with their families or do art
or a thousand other things or maybe have someone to sleep with.
In America it’s full steam ahead. Even when its zero degrees out
everything carries on just the same in a weird display
of self-mockery. No one seems to see the boundary
between patience and persistence, meaningful accomplishment
and an over-achiever complex. What a difference there is.
Don’t take yourself too seriously, America.
And don’t say you’re sorry if you don’t mean it.