Waking up in Seattle, silently packing.
Over an omlette in Chicago, watching the sun rise.
Clouds are a less expensive, more private, kinder version of a Rorschach test.
Dear tips of the wing, meet my wing tip shoes...
From the sky, Connecticut looks like one giant piece of broccoli.
On the ground, the trees are a reminder that the place is, indeed, a different one.
The houses, remarkable.
The attitudes, different.
The love, the same.
What is America?
A currency?
A language?
An architecture?
An army?
A feeling?
A judgement?
Freedom?
Are we, by definition, a jumbulia, a melting pot that keeps chanting: "WE TASTE GREAT!"
Does national pride matter?
Or is that too "redneck" for poetry?
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