The following two prose poems comprise separate halves of a recent "Intro to Creative Writing" assignment of mine. The prompt for this piece was one word: "America," and we were given the freedom to write about whatever we choose. In my poems, I wanted to present two equally valid but distinct versions of American life. And yes, I am just recycling a homework assignment in lieu of having anything new to write about this week. That being said, I hope you enjoy it.
Skyscrapers
America is walking down a bustling city street in some shining metropolis, the location of all the classic movies. Your senses are overwhelmed by everything around you - flashing neon billboards, car horns singing in improvised rhythm, distinct smells of cooking meats on the corner. So many people - you couldn't know this many people if you tried. As you take it all in, a passer-by in a worn-out leather jacket, with a haircut betraying his rough facade, bumps into you. Agitated, you turn - but you are already gone to him, a momentary blip in his breakneck day. Turning back, you happen to gaze up at the skyscrapers above.
"Skyscraper," that's a funny word, right?
After all, the sky is so dramatically vast
and these towers, so finite.
But now, here - looking up from the ground -
the name finally makes sense.
These towering concrete obelisks, monuments to human ingenuity,
racing upward at your feet.
The manpower involved - so many people, so many hours spent
pouring cement,
laying pipe,
electrical wires
elevator shafts
rippling glass windows …
All in monumental effort raising this
"skyscraper" you now stand below.
That is America.
Flat Orange Lights
America is flying down a lonely dirt road on a Friday night, a plume of dust and gravel shooting up rocket exhaust behind you. Windows rolled down, radio blaring something classic. Springsteen, probably. Left, pastel pink clouds, illuminated by those deep orange hues of a dying sun. Pulling up to a gas station, you turn the music down. The stench of gasoline bites at your nose as you walk inside and ask for a carton of cigarettes. The elderly cashier with the tucked-in polo shirt & the owl-rimmed glasses smiles as you hand him a crumpled five -
"Don't get in too much trouble tonight."
Later still, you drive back down that same dirt road. Darkness has settled in; checking the time you realize, you told your mom you'd be home thirty minutes ago. Something quieter is playing now, something bittersweet. Right, you see distant, flat orange lights -
the closest thing to civilization you know.
Not much of a skyline, but it's the best you've got.
Those flat orange lights, echoing across the barren plains -
That is America.
