I am an American

I am an American. I wake up and feel nothing.

I cling to the dregs of a dream and shut out the world and wish I could sleep,

Stiffly step over the articles of clothing that litter the floor,

Things I wear once then discard and ignore.

Through the window I see buttercups.

Vaguely I think that beauty to me is the same as it is in the eye of a bee.

But not long do I linger, my natural inclination is toward the coffee pot, were already brewing is today’s motivation, my mind’s renewing.

When I fill my cup, a drip slips down the side, so I slide my thumb up to stop it like a tear on the cheek of a child.

If it tastes just right, like my very first sip, when I talked to my mother for hours,

Oh! It’s like heaven, and the new me walks out to admire my beautiful flowers.

And now the gentle breeze may be permitted to cool me, her coolest American princess.

And the sun is my servant, doing his time, and I have seen him do better, but I suppose he’s just fine,

And just fine is the way an American feels, when he lights a cigarette to fulfill a need

 he created himself.

Likewise, my sorrows are shadows that I have devised.

Surrounded by beauty, abundance, by lies!

I refused to feel fine,

I felt devastated.