The America I remember has been stolen,

it doesn’t seem to be the way

it was when I first laid

eyes on the French mistress

holding a light to the world’s

repossessed and charmed poetry fanatic.

The bars look uncomfortable now

and not welcoming to the stranger

at the door, clad in clothes

of home but willing to

change, to leave the will behind

and play the game, until it suits

to change the rules, one message at a time.

 

The America I loved, still love, for passion