Dear Franks

America: A Dream of Sorts

America
Sometimes I miss you.
The wide open spaces.
Plenty of free parking that I don't need.
Space a plenty to be alone with my thoughts.
A place where a man can be a driver.
A place where a woman can buy a shotgun in despair.
A place where the roads never end, but all the places start to merge along the highway.
A place I left to experience the sameness of elsewhere.
America calls to me, "Come back to the parking lot, stare at the telephone lines, and cracked asphalt. Love me."
I listen sometimes, but mostly I put headphones on and dance to my own tune.

Adam Markus
November 15, 2007