Fill a simile with time and you’ll be granted my American in:

you’ll fly high like rain coming down, like that man

who shovels like a mountain and continues like my sister

at dawn with nothing like it used to be, who you knew–

like all that is great in this greater world– like a dog

at supper time or a grandma-like smell or a laugh sung

with sun-like light upon windows and sills, like a load of gasoline

delivered too– like, so very– slow if you know, like my mother

used to say, when I’m going to the store at like 8 AM

and sticking my finger out like a teenaged girl gone bad,

like perhaps she is 18? 19? No matter the number,

it is like we are all in but one time, like no one is watching,

and like no one is hearing our “likes” at all…

October 4, 2013

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