My country, 'tis of thee by Bob Hicok

Whatever our problems are, we've been the closest thing the world has known to an open door.

My country, ‘tis of thee

by Bob Hicok

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I was standing on a corner near the Guggenheim, 
just me and three thousand other people
waiting to cross. A few seconds after the light changed, 
a cab tore through and almost hit the woman in front of me. 
The guy to my left screamed mother fucker in English, 
as the woman beside him shouted something in Dutch, 
and the man next to her something in Hindi, cousins, 
no doubt, to the slur about the cabbie 
having sex with the woman who abracadabraed his breath 
into the chalice of flesh. We all looked at each other 
with an expression that, in the language of the face, 
translated as asshole, smiled and moved on. It's the smiling 
I adore, the recognition of how alike we are 
in our differences. If you want to meet the world, 
come to America. People arrive with suitcases, 
and without, with twenty and twenty million dollars 
sewn into the lining of their chakras, by plane
and foot and boat and raft and balloon 
in the past, when air ships were a thing 
that made people look up and wish for a life 
in the sky. It wouldn't surprise me if the cabbie 
swore at us in French or Spanish, Swahili 
or the Hebrew that leapt out from the deli 
I stood in front of an hour later, wondering which came first, 
the bagel or the shmear. A smorgasbord of languages. 
Of hair, and noses, of songs and dreams and genes. 
If you think of people as metal shavings, you're weird, 
but then you can also think of America as a magnet. 
People are attracted here from everywhere. 
Because they're tortured. Or have restless soul syndrome. 
Or believe in a god who'll get them harassed 
or killed at home. Whatever our problems are, 
we've been the closest thing the world has known 
to an open door. Some say close it. Maybe. Sure. 
But then again, as the children of light, of stars 
that died and passed their reaching on to us, 
we could also crack it wider.