Recently I’ve found myself reading a lot of poetry. I like poetry – well – I like what I like. Sometimes I read poems and I think – what in the world are they talking about. Not today – today I came across a poem that I totally get and, just as important, I like it. So, seeing as how I like to share things I like – I thought I’d pass this poem on to folks.
It is called The American in Me and it came to me from another blog I get updates from called Curator. I like this poem because it reminds me of folks I love – because I’m related to them or because I have been fortunate to know some really good folks. I also like it because it sort of reminds me of me – or part of me – or at least some part of me that I once knew and I’m not the least bit embarrassed or ashamed of. You can find the poem below – or just click here: http://www.curatormagazine.com/joshua-cave/the-american-in-me/
The American in me drives a Chevrolet,
spells carborator however he likes
and purposely leaves the grease in his skin.
The American in me is more muscular,
talks loud shit with the boys
and drinks beer because he likes it.
The American in me smells right,
like wood chips, cigarettes and sweat
and his wife likes two out for three.
The American in me votes ardently,
carries the political history of his father
and holds country up to family.
The American in me married his high school sweetheart,
said “I love you” through the tears
and has been saying it every morning ever since.
The American in me goes to the coast on vacation,
always says he’ll retire there
but knows he won’t make it that long.
The American in me is a veteran
of everything if you’re asking him
and yes, he is ready for a fight.
The American in me hits hard,
like the first cold wind of winter
freezing brittle bone to break inside out.
The American in me works on the clock,
hates and loves the overtime
for the effort it takes and the empathy it creates.
The American in me sits at the head of the table,
flanked by loving wife and obedient children
and he loves them when he has time.
The American in me tries to stay healthy,
dilutes his tuna with beer
and wears his gut like a varsity jacket.
The American in me goes by Jon,
spells it without the “H”
and always peers over just to make sure.
The American in me is the American in you,
and the American in you doesn’t recognize the American in me,
nor me in you, nor you in me, nor us in I.