Once I found out I had thirty-five
percent English blood and two
percent Indian blood from India,

I realized I was both oppressor
and oppressed, more oppressor than
oppressed, much more oppressor than

oppressed and then I realized I am
what everyone is in oneself —
both oppressor and oppressed; the

percentage doesn’t matter because,
according to Holy Writ if you are
guilty of breaking one commandment

you are guilty of breaking all ten
and, therefore never one in a position
to judge anyone anymore for anything

and that would be a really good
starting place for personal humility
and responsibility, speaking as

one who is both oppressor and oppressed,
even if more oppressor than oppressed,
which according to my DNA is what I am.

The Brits know gardens.
We manicure lawns.
They see the glory in
a myriad of wild flowers.
We say weeds be gone.
They germinate.
We eliminate.
To imitate:
Something there is
that doesn’t like a
well manicured lawn –
Kentucky Blue
cut to the bottom of the sticks,
keep it neat through
and through,
but do make it quick.
We are adolescents.
They are our antecedents
our ancestors,
our grandparents,
the ones who know
how to preserve.
I’m not sure we deserve
such an inheritance
or anything more,
but give us a chance
and perchance
we, too, may yet grow
beautiful, British
gardens galore.

It’s the first of July, the
start of the Fourth of July
celebration. There is much
energy in the air, people
shopping for beer, getting
the boat ready, picnics. I
sit and think about the
dissipation of that energy
and enthusiasm over the
evolution of a short period
of time — too much sun, too
much beer, too much good
cheer, boiling and broiling
irritation at the neighbor’s
boorish political opinions
while said neighbor pontifi-
cates while standing over
the grill looking down at
what the man thinks could
pass for the neighbor’s
relatives — hot dogs, re-
trieving the boat from the
water in a dense, head fog,
fights between husbands and
wives about the best way to
run the boat up on the trailer
without carving a slice of
fiberglass while children
sit in the backseat glued
to their phones. My wife and
I decide to go for a jog at
a quiet, seldom used trail,
hunker down, play it safe,
lie low with the chocolate
lab and shudder at the thought
of all those people on the
road back to Chicago.