Peter Newton

My America

What this place needs are a few corner bars and a street fight or two, he says of her immaculate neighborhood with its bumped-out bungalows and cobble-stoned driveways. Sure, it's nice enough, pretty and all. But it's not real. Not to me, anyway. But my America comes from growing up in the heart of an industrial city at the height of post-World War II euphoria. People were having kids right and left. We were all growing in leaps and bounds. I mean you couldn't not find work. They were pulling guys off the streets into the second-shifts they'd have for the rest of their working lives. Whaddya got, a noise ordinance around here or something? It's a Friday night.

America. Baby. C'mon. What's happened to you? It's as if you lost heart along the way. Waylaid by all this glitz. It's not like you to settle down. Get comfortable. C'mon. Let's drive south. Go west. Anything. Where's your spirit? His eyes scan the once gutted kitchen now decked out with its two-inch thick glass counter tops installed to look like reflecting pools when the sun hits them just right.

occupying
a dream I didn't have
Wall Street