A House Called America

This is a poem I found on the highway, pasted to stop sign facing the sunrise.

I grew up in a house called America,

There was a crack running clean down the floor,

I played soldier on guard over my half of the house,

Because the wings of the house were at war.

I’m writing this letter to you: America,

The millions like me who feel like a waste,

I’m writing to say that I love you;

I can’t recall when we abandoned that phrase.

Yes, you reading this poem,

Yes you whom I may never see-

You are America and I cherish you,

For who you are and who you were born to be.

I still dream of what we may become:

A land that is both just and free,

Though at times it seems that the dream is undone,

When I wake up in reality.

Still, I will never reject you,

There is nothing that won’t make you home to me;

Because by the living God who holds you,

You are my family.