Where the remembered go to be forgotten,
Our feet crush soft grass souls
As we plod tenderly
Over what used to bake in our kitchens,
And tend our fireplaces
(They feel around in the dark
cold hands, searching for America)

In those little cracks of broken
Industrial Revolution
Fraternizing led and asbestos
Rotten steal
(They strain their ears,
and try to hear America)

And at those hot new food chains
Those tragic old hipsters
With their lukewarm jazz
And their medium poetry
They think they know what to criticize
(But really they’re still looking for America)