I've read the poetry of
langston hughes, a consummate
american,
no doubt.

He spoke of oppression and
the american dream. I felt
his words reach into me and grab hold, like
a musician holds his mandolin,
singing something free
to me as a
lullaby.

I, too, feel a part of America.

I feel the rope burns
of the impovershed
with them.
I take my place in the majority.
Squarely.

I feel a part of the real America.

Waking each morning,
bleary eyes crusted
with sedation,
filled with soft lethargy,
comfortable and sweet

I understand so little.
So I go

and meet my bills.
I battle them, embrace them,
hate them, embody them.
I dedicate
myself to them
completely, the purest fidelity
towards them
pouring from
me, a winding path
into the economy,
the great study of humanity
that consumes this nation,
consumes me.
I am tired.