Minority Report



John Updike

My beloved land,
here I sit in London
overlooking Regent’s Park
overlooking my new Citroen } both green
exiled by success of sorts.
I listen to Mozart in my English suit and weep,
remembering a Swedish film.

But it is you,
really you I think of:
your nothing streetcorners
your ugly eateries
your dear barbarities and vacant lots

(Br’er Rabbit demonstrated:
freedom is made of brambles).

They say over here
you are choking to death on your cities and slaves,
but they have never smelled dry grass,
smoked Kools in a drugstore,
or pronounced a flat ‘a’ or an honest‘r’.

Don’t read your reviews,
A * M * E * R * I * C * A:
you are the only land.
 

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