I was complaining about my father, who just bought a house
In Newfoundland, at a Starbucks, sipping on a low-fat Chai Latte,
And warming my hands on the mug, when Christ returned to Earth.
I didn’t recognize him with short hair,
But the marks on his forehead and hands
Were a dead giveaway. I nodded to him as
He walked through the door, and he nodded back.
His face was gaunt, weather-beaten, as he was,
No doubt, unfamiliar with the Canadian winter,
and there was a hint of anger in his eyes, something
lingering, from the old days. He didn’t part the line,
but waited patiently behind a fat woman hand-in-hand
with her scrawny boyfriend. If I didn’t know better, I’d say
he was still pissed off at us,
for never really getting it.
I want to cross the border
over the Peace Bridge
and have sex with America,
blonde ponytail, cheerleading America.
With its Gap hoodies full with silicon breasts,
hair pulled through the back of a
baseball cap from a Midwestern team
The Cubs, Brewers, Royals, it doesn’t matter.
I want to press your soft, collagen lips against mine,
in a suburban home protected by white picket fences,
an apple pie cooling on the window sill,
white Christian children riding tricycles outside.
Strolling hand-in-hand down Main Street
I watch you in the reflection of the General store window.
America, my America, I can’t wait to get you home
and obsess over your youth, your body
fifty states stretched across blue sheets,
red rose petals and white wine, sweat-glistening
in candlelight, my fresh water flowing into you,
quenching your thirst.
America the beautiful,
you only want me
when my dollar is low.
Jeff Dupuis writes poetry and short fiction, and reviews non-fiction and how-to books. In his off-hours Jeff likes to train in the martial arts, or if nothing else, watch straight-to-DVD martial arts movies. Jeff Dupuis lives and works in Toronto, Canada.