Don’t call me your compatriot,

I live in a nation of my own

I am alone, 

and any invitation I receive to socialize comes 

written in red ink like the “words of the messiah”

There is an embargo on all trade within my nation 

and it’s signed 

with that same red ink

My nation is running out of resources,

the government employees write to neighboring nations seeking aid

The citizens’ options are limited and they trust the fancier pen 

despite the bad handwriting

Soon my nation is deserted

and my memory of it rests

in a plein-air painting of its coastline

It hangs above our breakfast nook