Dream State.I don't know what the Ritz-Carlton can offer me that I don't get at home, other than a mint on my pillow. It is useless, pointless excess. A dream of America.I wear, around my neck, a rusted ball bearing that dangles on a black leather cord. It was made by a man or woman in the now crumbling, busted city of Detroit. Hard working hands packed it into boxes and shipped it to a factory that installed it in a delivery truck. That truck broke down in front of a Vietnamese restaurant in a dirty corner of town, just after it lost a ball bearing.There that once fine piece of metal sat ignored, being crushed under wheels and rusted by the rain until my rough hands and different frame of mind found it and placed it in my pocket one bleak winter day.When people ask me what it is hanging on that cord around my neck, I tell them a little piece
a dream of America.