Amerigo Round

My America is not
Wall Street, but
The Walgreens down the street
Not amber waves of grain, but
A beer can in the sand
Not purple mountain majesties, but
Purple Rice and Lewis jerseys.

It is the raccoon house next door
And the neighbor who sings loud enough to upset the dogs.
It is too many zucchinis on our back porch
With a note that says, “I knocked, but no one answered.”

It is the creaking trampoline
Whose sound is more potent than the ice cream truck.
It is the old graffiti in the sidewalk
“Nixon” next to a pothole in the street.
It is the century-old newspapers we found in the wall
When we renovated.
It is the tremendously tall lady who collects walnuts
And the woman whose kids don’t know she smokes on the balcony
And blames it on her husband.
It is taking the shortcut through five backyards
And every kid does the same.

My America is small enough to matter
And too big to forget.