Star-spangled banner on a grain of rice


My hideaway, finally. No patriotic tides,

no four-wheelers covered by stripes.

No huge flags screaming red, white

and true, no God bless America or you die.

Simple stretch of Mexico beach, a bit of peace,

only interruption, vendors, trinket-laden,

searching for pesos, not bin Laden.


Life, here, on sale, not exploded,

I choose blankets; tacos; tequila, gold;

earrings, silver; cerveza, cold. Later, add

pottery; bracelets; marguaritas, iced;

write my name on a grain of rice.

Away from war fever, I relax in shade,

no military tribunals, hasty graves,

no brown-skinned Americans, terrorists all,

shipped to Guantanamo, wasting away. 

                              Timothy Pilgrim