The middle of this empire of America
Is a sewer.
Unacknowledged by what rushes over on skyward boulevards,
We made our quiet lives.
I never ventured very far north,
Past the geriatric valley that ostensibly held a river,
Except to visit casinos, eat fried fish and longhorn burgers.
South and west were in the borders of my patria,
Different but safely familiar.
At last I looked east to a pine-ridden Haran
And set out with delusions of magnificence.
This presumption of being led,
Enticed by outlandish voices:
Why else does anyone leave home?
You may change more than just your name
In the wilds of wayward ripening.
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