Omaha, U.S.A.


She says she’s from Omaha
so I tell her I passed through once on a hitchhike and--
Wait, she says, 
what do you mean ‘on a hitchhike’?

She has a friendly heart-shaped smile
so I explain I was just bumming around 
on Christmas break from college and--
Wait, she says, 
you didn’t go home for Christmas?

So I explain I was in search of the real America
when a trucker dropped me downtown near the river, 
an old brick building with a sign that said ROOMS $3 
but the little man at the window demands $4.50 
to stay all night, the $3 would be for an hour. 
I only have $4.75 to my name but I pay and--
Wait, she says, 
why didn’t you have more money?

So I explain how it was all part of finding real America
which I thought was fistfights and factories and I was 
searching for fossilized ciggie butts of Kerouac and 
Cassady still littering roadside ditches--
Wait, she says, 
who is Kerouac and Cassady?

Real Americans, I say, which maybe I wished I was.
My hotel room was a putrid mattress, 
one thin blanket, broken window, door without a lock, 
froze my ass, not much sleep with shouting all night 
and somebody peed on my door--
Wait, she says, 
did you see any other part of Omaha?

Her eyes look sad with big brown pity.
No, I say, I hit the road before sunrise.
If you went to my house, she says, 
my parents might hate you 
but as my friend they’d make you a bed
and I promise they’d serve you 
some good grass-fed Nebraska beef.

Is that the real America? I ask.
Did you find anything better?