Jim Harrison wrote that in America
peasants fry potatoes in bacon grease.
But this morning we eat eggs
drizzled in hollandaise
asparagus sautéed in salt and lemon.

Our plates look like art projects,
English muffin centerpieces.
We wear work-boots with our best clothes:
mustard tights, hand-me down dresses, hand knit ties.
We go outside to freckle.

Today, in America, potatoes sizzle on fast-food griddles,
catsup pours, Jesus drives a salt-glazed highway
in a Pontiac that smells more like old coffee
than frankincense,
and we sit on porches
in front of houses filled with other people’s furniture.

In dirt-soaked snow, fir needles float.
Melt laces ice. Cedar branches baptize
soaking us in spring.