I imagine you from photographs
and TV programs. I click through
slideshows of lions and hyenas
on the Serengeti, mouths agape.
I have read Hemingway.
This is what you're up against, this
incurious kindness that doesn't think
of you except while changing channels
past self-satisfied news: famine, civil war,
countries whose names bring to mind
Heart of Darkness. I feel a moment of
uneducated grief, a deeper torpor, the sort
of guilt that makes me eat the rotten
grapes at the bottom of the bowl. I know
you are a you, but I don't know you.
I know America doesn't want
anything but more America.