Which Washington, no doubt, dreamt for us
that winter at Valley Forge. & for which,
before this, Revere hung his one lantern
then a second in the Boston belfry, his men
close with their stallions, town shuttered, so when
in the course of human events—or when,
next Sunday, the Kiwanis Club (Upper
Susquehanna Valley branch) bend to their gins
& sodas, or to their rum, umbrella-
festooned cocktails, they will, we know, do so
sipping our finest of freedoms. For us
in America there is little pleasure better
now than this—to feast of our cattle’s back-
parts, fried for us, & to let ourselves sink
deep in the combed acre of sand shipped in
to the Gettysburg city park, the pops
frosting in their coolers, couples, for just
ten dollars, drifting against each other
to Joe Vance & the Last Straws, all of which
& more, America, the flier in Sheetz—BEACH
PARTY STEAK FRY—promises. Potato
salad. Ice sculptures. Mojitos. It was
madeira, sixty bottles, Washington
ordered for his friends their final evening
in Philadelphia. From the bar tab—
tumblers (damaged). Claret. Relishes. Men
who it is right, these days, to point out owned
other men & who slaughtered the natives
here but who also, of course, allowed us
to forget this sometimes, & to forget,
for once, the Wing Stripz Sheetz’s night shift
is frying for me—& which I will relish
now amid the fumes of fueling pickups
with Fanta & Boom-Boom Sauce—are so good,
we know, precisely because they will kill us.
Photo Credit: Didier Moïse via Creative Commons
