This was the land of giant, white, flag-waving
Pick-up trucks trusting in God. They said so
On their license plates. Thousands of them.
You could do the math yourself. Drive around
Saint George during rush hour, counting
All the white pick-ups with flag-and-God
Plates or decals. Multiply that by the inverse
Of whatever fraction of locally owned and operated
Vehicles you thought you’d seen. See? Thousands.
This land was their land. You’re welcome.
On their terms. Otherwise not so welcome,
Although these days they were concerned
You’d probably show up anyways. I should say,
Us, not them. I grew up more or less one of them,
The flag, the God, the big white combustion engine,
But my daddy liked ragtop Caddies, not pick-ups. You,
However, are not an us to them. You’re a them
To them who are an us to them. “We say grace
And we say ‘ma’am,’ and if you don’t like it,
We don’t give a damn.” Cheerful chivalry
Sandwiched between grace and damnation,
Ma’am rhymed with damn. Very American, I admit,
Although I couldn’t say how long it could survive
That way. Maybe forever, or forever and a day.
Or maybe their land had already had its day.
Either way, the snowy trucks with trusting plates
As yet held sway, circling in proud, perpetual parade.
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