In Minneapolis the water tastes of chlorine, bleached out

memories of old conflicts dissolving into themselves like ice-cubes.

In Denver, the water carries occasional whiffs

of ammonia, but who cares? Not me,

I’m wearing a new suit like a nationality.

I’m testing out America for effect, slipping it over

my namebrand underclothing

to see if it makes me feel that Bomb Alaska

is a joke about Canadians, or that people move about

only in order to fulfil national objectives – tourism,

for example. No more border-crossings

at eight in the evening for me,

not with this passport, no more queuing

for the wrong stamp which will serve you ill

at Athens airport in February when it’s snowing.
America, you have come to keep us neat.

You haven’t the time to commute death

sentences on the way to the president’s office.

No room for ‘I’m sorry’, having a very nice time

swallowing dozens of whoopie burgers at the 1982 World’s Fair,

understanding it’s not the laughter that means America,

it’s the actual punchlines – the what ‘upstairs’ means to the breathy couple

on the cream-coloured sofa behind the coffee table,

when it’s late enough the music’s changed and the pre-pubic

kiddoes are off to camp with trusted scoutmasters.
And I’ve done what I had to do, been born,

been to Nashville for all-you-can-eat, dry-fried

chicken strips. Americans will even swallow

that the Pacific coast was not the limit of exploration,

or that the dulling of stars (in the sky)

means something about development. Yes,

in Nashville there’s a full-scale replica

of the Parthenon as once it stood,

though built to last in red granite.

Sydney, too, has a Chrysler Building,

the announcement draped in reflective-blue façade.
America is everywhere, in all stages of compression:

the nation contained in a song,

its complicated down-home heartlessness,

the flag gulping back speech after speech and flapping

out again in the prevailing westerly.

William H Gass put it best, his story asking,

‘Where, after all, is Germany?’

America offers no space for quibbling –

‘Insult me, insult my country,’ maintains someone

from Wisconsin, advancing belligerently, oblivious

of two dozen Haitians raising their arms: ‘Excuse us,

Mr Melodrama, you’re disturbing our careers.’