America lies
in a bed, not her bed, in
a room, not her room,
in a home, not her
home. She can’t see the t.v.
She can barely hear,
but she listens to
the radio—classical
music. She’s in love
with the announcer,
who is a baritone. She
was a soprano.
One time, he plays one
of her solos, and, for a time,
an eternity,
America lies
in her own bed, in her own
room, in her own home.
dust 