America is a delicate child who always
carries with her a curious sense
of the absurd.
She can be seen in the gardens, from
time to time, lounging under the
canopy reading Dickens or Chandler.
Or dropping pebbles into the
they’re her lovers, watching as they
descend forgotten past
into the murky depths, her hand crushing
the moss and the lichen
clinging to the rocks.
Dazzlingly beautiful, the blood of her
forefathers shapes her, curved
in blue jeans, long curls of hair, red as
autumn apples, falls languid over
her white t-shirt
that masks her in innocence and purity.
The July heat thunder rolls over
the fences and
tickles the walls of the house where she
dreams of paper planes and
bears a strong patience in cruelty with
charming sophistication. She gives
hope that waits
on assurances of prosperity. A captive of
her own lusts, America constructs
ambitions born with feigned nobility that
that she sees will never come