Another Country
by David Radavich
You’d never know
this is America, too.
I meander through
the rose garden
on the serpentine path
and marvel at
blooms in late July
still clinging
and bringing heart
almost as high
as I and fragrant
everywhere in the air
so all we see is
wonder everywhere,
one passport
after another—
white, yellow, red,
a diplomatic
shade of tangerine—
and this is not
the world we’ve seen,
its violence and trespass
cruel and without care
but a place redemptive,
encompassing, that
many hands have tasked
these many years,
all the time
I’ve ventured here
always first, before
any appointment
or meal or chore,
just this walk of glory
that gives us—oh, visa—
a different story.