Cellphone America 


A toddler in bright pink cap on sideways falters in
the uneven tattoo she beats behind the backside of

a man whose T-shirt reads “Dave ’09.” She is only
mise-en-scene to him as he ambles over the lawn.

His footsteps describe a phantom maze his daughter
tries hard to follow. She stumbles and falls in her 

newly acquired gait. Each tumble, she grabs a clump
of grass, to rise and baby-throw at target “Dave ’09.”

Her futile anger hits low on Dad’s Bermuda shorts and
on his legs and sneakers. He does not feel the grass, or

shows no sign he does. He talks on his cellphone in
a lively, winsome tone with a digital reconstruction he

apparently really likes. The grass cannot speak for his
girl to tell him to be one with her, the lawn, and the 

glorious, warm spring day through whose bushes pretty
warblers are tittupping, singing their pretty songs to baby.





America, The Chinese


O’er America’s bounteous plains and snow-capped 
peaks, the railroad spread its grip. In the West, crews

of Chinese gandy-danced over steep passes and through
fertile valleys. They drove spikes into rails, trusses, and

beams to vault bridges over canyons. Soon, along the 
iron road, rose rowdy, little towns and lush, lusty farms.  

In the High Sierras, the Chinese swung in baskets before  
jagged rock faces that snarled at them. They replied by 

sledging the granite into submission. Their bones fell into 
broken piles that now are mileposts in America, the Chinese.





Toy Story, USA  


Our toddler Omar must have his toys. They
take him toward vistas, away from Mom 

and Dad. Each gift lets him conquer more
for his burgeoning army of toys. Today he

is incident commander for a brilliant-red fire
truck he drives to extinguish a major blaze.

He is a very brave little boy. The flames lick
at him as he climbs through rugged black 

smoke into the South Tower to save lives.
He knows this is no toy story for the falling

are bleeding, not melting. Tomorrow he will 
climb a monument, plant bougainvillea seeds,

and rappel down, his fingers guiding G.I. Joe.
Vines of annealing color will douse the flames.





American Trees  


Four decades ago, a long row of blue spruce seedlings
was planted at my apartment complex. Their shadows

and fallen needles take the measure of my America. As
they grew, the cascade of the American experience fell

as rain on the spruce. My American sun shined her face
on them. She smiled, glowered, grimaced, harrumphed

(as only my own mother could), and twisted her lips and
showed her teeth in the full array of emoting that only

my U.S. Clio can summon. I see these trees through my
wide picture window all my waking hours. They are eye-

opening companions to me. These tall American trees 
grow in my Iowa. They are American trees of Iowa that

have seen my time as I have seen theirs. I can no longer see
the parking lot nor the bluff on the river beyond. I had to 

go on bp meds. My auto of 24 years gave out. Two young 
kids and their baby sitter died in a fire in the building across

from me. A colleague lost an arm in an accident. 9/11 hit
me hard, sent me to my history books in a frenetic, patriotic 

search for comfort. A couple moved in below me who make
too much noise and the guy below them called the cops. My

parents died. I lost some friends, got some new ones, some
old ones came back. My nephews got married. I created the 

courses, “Africa in the Modern World” and “Scandinavian
Thought and Culture.” My brother got cancer. My university

closed. I turned 72, free to read, write, and travel. My spruce
trees, my American trees, mean a lot to me and everyone here.




​
American Walls  


We spend our lives building walls to protect us.
The moats we dig around those walls buy more

life insurance, bought dearly. Our walls bristle.
They bare sharp teeth of space-age metal. Inside,

we count our days, years, grandkids, and money,
an arithmetical way to faux-control fate. Perhaps  

we take a vacation from the walls, but it is only a 
short escape. A mind can’t ponder its own fall from 

existence. Nor can a wall. Yet, we know for a fact
our mighty walls will fall one day into deep and 

slimy moats, filled with anti-personnel crocs. We
deny this truth till we hear the first redoubt crack 

apart into a cloud of dust. Walls crumble to dust,
and we do find, after all, that dust doth become us.