DEAR NEIGHBOR,

I grew up playing hockey on ponds,

which makes me 3/8 Canadian, at least.

And if I'm drunk, I've likely been pounding

maple syrup, with or without pancakes,

even while driving, or skydiving,

though I'd never do that, jump out of a plane

and ask the air to support my endeavors.

O Canada, speaking of crazy, I'm sorry

we've kept you awake at night.

I hear the floorboards of our common border creak

as you pace above me. Please understand,

no one here wants to attack you. Well,

no one here who doesn't have orange skin

wants to attack you. What's up with that?

Is there such a thing as sentient citrus? Signs

point to no. Americans want to attack you

about as much as they want to lick a light socket

while standing in a bathtub

with a shark who hasn't eaten in a year.

Maybe less than that, if you can want to do anything

less than that, though I'd rather do that

than try to explain why a president of the United States

would pick a fight with Canada. It's like picking a fight

with your right arm. Or cutting a hole in the ice

where you stand. Or performing open-heart surgery on yourself

with a wolverine, in the dark, on the high-wire,

while doing cocaine and riding a suicidal horse

doing smack. It's exactly like that, only worse.

By the way, I've never written a poem to a country before.

Do you have a nickname? I'll call you Mapleleaf,

since I love your flag, and your anthem

kicks our anthem's ass, it's not even close,

like kazoos versus cellos in a street fight.

I never told you, but I had my first cannoli in Windsor,

where I took my first trip with my wife

almost thirty-five years ago. I should have thanked you

for the sweetness but I didn't, is this why

people think of us as rude Americans,

or is it because some of us think we own

the world? No one owns the world, not even the world.

The sky sort of owns the world

if you think about it, as the world

sits in the sky's pocket, but that's enough astronomy

for one poem. If you'd like to drop by, I'd love that.

And if I come over, please don't forecheck me.

We're the same people separated

by how we pronounce sorry, a word I can't use enough

right now. I'm sorry we've sorry made you sorry

anxious sorry no good sorry or sorry bad sorry reason

at sorry all. America's insane right now,

is the only way to explain this. We need therapy.

Maybe Thorazine. And shouldn't be around others

until we can learn to be around ourselves.

I wish you could ignore us, but what is it that people say

about 800-pound gorillas, other than, that's

a lot of gorilla? And there's something

about an 800-pound gorilla with a combover

that's more terrifying than comic, don't you think?

That America has come between Canada and Wayne Gretzky

should make clear to all life forms

that exist or will ever exist

that something has gone terribly wrong.

You say sorry almost like soiree, I say sorry

to every single one of you, every single million of you,

and ask that you accept the mumble of this poem

as a bullhorn, a treaty, a kiss.