My uncle drove us through the countryside
past silos and barns and fields of corn
never exclaiming, “Look, cows!”
because he knew the kids were anticipating
something more fantastic, impossible.
As we left behind the last
signs of civilization,
faced the Illinois plains and low-hanging clouds,
shafts of light striking small patches
of land, loosing from within us
biblical sighs,
he shook his head -
we inhaled -
“I remember when this all used to be city,
skyscrapers as far as the eye could see,
the sweet scent of smog in the air.”
I gazed out the window at a newly
hideous landscape:
flowers where pavement once lay,
trees in place of fire hydrants -
a dead brown square of grass where Baskin-
Robbins once stood,
and the shadow of a lone businessman,
one of a dwindling breed,
hunting with primitive prowess
the endangered,
elusive,
American dream.