America Poem by RIC BASTASA

america, i wonder what snow is,
they say it is cold and pure and smooth
and too fragile to the warmth of our fingers,
in a second dissolving into tears,
i may be wrong, i know it has no salt of the earth,
i know that for certain for i have taken
a little of chemistry and
have studied some ramifications of the weather
and have even tasted the whirls of
storm in my country of brown
monkeys, brothers all, in the hinter hills.

i think snow is cool, I haven't touched it yet.
but i have heard about some rumors,
that i better stay here and not touch it anymore,
because i may break my heart
since it sings utter loneliness.

i am bombarded with apples though
in the market stalls they are now cheap
some of the best
not from America but China
and Japan.

I do not like the taste of apples.
Neither shall i like, i know, the taste of snow.

So finally, i have decided to just stay here
and rot.
Who knows, I can be the best humus for change
who knows, also for growth?

Yes, they call it progress in the wilderness and poverty of the
Third World.