A Pome a Day for a Year

Your roads are wide and your weather
blazing, and here I stroll,
without wordly cares, on this bare
sidewalk (gotta use the American
over here, you see, no pavements
in Omaha) where suburbs
align in media formed pools,
blocks of life I grew up with
via a convex screen but
was never truly connected to,
until now.

Until these months,
where I have
sunk,
like a man standing in jelly,
wobbling gracefully in sugary contact
with folks amazed of foreign
sounds and wildfire the spread
of my appearance, many looks
diverted to my face and body
though I want to be a beetle
hiding under rocks.