We honor him whose plumed
existence fills our feast, whose
umbrella-houses have become like this
fowl’s rib-cage, our home’s hidden
heartbeat, beat, beating like some
woodland native’s drum… warning, warning.
We honor history, whose wrinkles
we retread each year according
to the social conscience model
number, according to the dialect
of English spoken here.
And holding hands, we bow
our heads, and pray the
table legs are sturdy and
will bear these stolen goods,
our guilt– pray for grace
to become Americans.