Micropoetry Monday: Life in these United States

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There was something for everyone—
from the faceless mountains sculpted
with God’s own hands,
to the beaches of white or brown sugar,
from the ice castles of Sweden to
the watercolor deserts of Africa,
from the Edenic flora of Madeline O’Keefe,
to the pastoral Americana of Grant Wood,
to the wide-open spaces of Andrew Wyeth.
For this land was a nation of immigrants–
all of whom could still find a piece
of what they’d left behind.

He spent the graveyard shift
watching the hairy underbelly of society scratch themselves–
evidence that the earth decayed during the Dreamtime.

Beck’s father still used terms like “lady doctor” & “male nurse,”
just as Beck’s mother still said “seamstress & tailor,”
“sculptor & sculptress.”
Beck didn’t see the world in shades of pink & blue
but rather,
in the listings of one’s job description;
for him, cosmetologists & mixologists
would always be beauticians & bartenders,
just as the police were “The Flatfooted Fuzz”
to his wayward brother, Call.
“It is what it is,” was Beck’s favorite phrase,
next to “you are what you are,”
for “corporate tool” was listed at the top of his resume,
which was a perfect fit,
as his last name was Lackey.

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