Another American July
“The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem.” – Walt Whitman
Vader and I are chain-smoking on the porch.
I’m going slowly, because he always bums when he runs out.
Evidently, they don’t buy their own on the dark side.
He’s as American as I am, and has the Evil Empire to prove it.
Me? I want a day of sunshine and ambient hip-hop,
to eavesdrop on the Spanglish chatter up and down the street.
He cops to wanting a death machine to blot out the sun,
but he’ll settle for a sandwich. Too nice a day to argue, really,
and for once he’s willing to walk. Even Sith bend at $3.19 a gallon.
The guy who owns the deli makes a killer Italian sub.
The only Arab I’ve ever known who likes baseball more than soccer,
he’s always wearing a Red Sox cap. I missed the last few games:
was consumed by typography questions and the World Cup match,
was consumed by a hard-drive error and “American Idol”
was consumed with the shoulders of pretty young things.
Vader’s invisible hand of capitalism snatches an Arizona iced tea.
He’s always doing stuff like that. No one notices anymore.
Our sandwiches overflow with mayonnaise and ham.
Outside, the muscle cars screech and rev their engines pointlessly.
Vader, the sandwich maker and I are all delighted,
possibly for different reasons.