Omaha, U.S.A.

 

Omaha, U.S.A.

She says she’s from Omaha
so I tell her I passed through once on a hitchhike and—
Wait, she says,
what do you mean ‘on a hitchhike’?

She has a friendly heart-shaped smile
so I explain I was just bumming around
on Christmas break from college and—
Wait, she says,
you didn’t go home for Christmas?

So I explain I was in search of real America
when a trucker dropped me downtown near the river,
an old brick building with a sign ROOMS $3
but the little man at the window demands $4.50
to stay all night, the $3 would be for an hour.
I only have $4.75 to my name but I pay and—
Wait, she says,
why didn’t you have more money?

So I explain how finding real America,
I thought, was fistfights and factories and I was
searching for fossilized ciggie butts of Kerouac and
Cassady still littering roadside ditches—
Wait, she says,
who is Kerouac and Cassady?

Real Americans, I say, which maybe I wished I was.
My hotel room was a putrid mattress,
one thin blanket, broken window, door without a lock,
froze my ass, not much sleep with shouting all night
and somebody peed on my door—
Wait, she says,
did you see any other part of Omaha?

Her eyes look sad with big brown pity.
No, I say, I hit the road before sunrise.
Wow, she says,
If you went to my house
my parents might hate you
but as my friend they’d make you a bed
and I promise they’d serve you
some good grass-fed Nebraska beef.

Is that the real America? I ask.
Sheesh, she says,
Did you find anything better?

,,,,,,

From my book Random Saints
First published in Verse-Virtual