“america in all lower case” by w.r. green

I am not a silent poet

there’s a giant dog in my neighborhood

living under the deck, 4 houses down,

on the right, behind that white picket fence

faded now, but still standing guard.

well i think that’s the house.

i only know because the lady

down the street

told me

about him,

and though she drinks a bit,

well maybe a lot,

she sits by her window

all day

and all night

singing a song not played

on the radio

in ages, not since the radio was

america’s voice,

waiting, for what

she will not say.

she points out to me in her

whiskey hushed tone

the absence of life, in

or around

the overgrown houses

paint peeling, cars melted into the asphalt.

he’s there, she assures me

a cigarette, no filter, bent from the pack,

pointing to no where specific.

we both stand in her yard, watching in vain,

the sun playing tricks


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