Jose Padua: The National Anthem

I am writing this because my world is
being made uninhabitable by assholes.
I am standing still on a manhole cover
that’s about to explode upward as the
shoreline moves closer to my feet. I
land in a city a hundred and forty miles
away and brush the ash from my shoulders,
exhale the smoke that accompanied my rising,
then after a half hour spent coughing breathe
new air into my lungs. I am walking into
a restaurant where everyone is armed
but me. They are watching the game on
TV. I eat my meal and kill time by pretending
to watch the game with them when I don’t care
about games and I don’t care about TV.
I overhear the wealthy family man whose
inspirational holiday pep talk about the playthings
he brings into his swinger’s bedroom is
“you gotta treat them like pieces of meat.”
I see a woman dressed like a mobile crucifixion
scene stand up and scream when the home team
scores. When she sees me she reaches for her Glock.
I have been drinking so much coffee and need
to pee so badly that I am now faster than any
gun. So I fly away from the red, white, and blue.
Over rows of beer mugs and plates of greasy
chicken wings, I float toward the fading light
of the western world’s flaming sunset, ready
to score my first touchdown as I consider the
ways I might make America great once again.

Copyright 2016 Jose Padua

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Route 22 (Photograph by Jose Padua)