America

The sparse grass of a silent plain,

The thirsty ground awaiting rain,

When miles are left to explore,

Along the path of a dusty lane.

Or just behind a sandy tor,

A beach on which to relax and snore,

A sliver of paradise,

Between the asphalt and the shore.

Or a homeless man, and though he’s nice,

He’s starving and overrun with lice,

With an addiction so intense,

It has made him pay the price.

And so despite the pretense,

This is America, if it were so condensed,

The good, bad, compliments and offense,

The view that reality presents.