My childhood love letter to growing old

I wrote turning dirt roads through
triangular cast-away underbrush
spring green smelling foliage
between suburban sprawl houses
squat and ignorant,
and don't you think that we should have
a baseball field on the back of the quarter?
isn't that America? Lady Babylon smiling
from trimmed bushes and driveway parked cars,
waiting patient, statuesque,
our beautiful apocryphal mother,
lighting fires by night starry sky
suicide squeeze charred baptismal remains,
she kisses my head, tucks me in america,
I close my eyes a century ago
under 1910 wood plank deteriorating ceiling,
the gods found new homes
beyond Jupiter storms and baby storms,
the rivers fell shouting you loved me
churning under blue bridge steps,
calling out through cyclone fences
grayed against calm brick row homes 
pot roast and potato dinners yawning through
chipped plaster, screened windows,
bums walking by on city streets miles north,
a child's fantasy growing old
while I sleep soundly to failed music and ginger charms.