The illusion of solitude

All my clothes were made in China;
The profits from my car
Went to Japan
Its powered by gas drilled in Africa,
South America and the Middle East;
My shoes were cobbled in Mexico
And my morning tea came from
India, by way of England.
The digital clock which awoke me
This morning in Georgia
Was manufactured in Asia,
And even the pajamas in which I slept
Were made somewhere else.

But the corn in my grits came from Georgia
And the cheese that flavored them
Came from cows weathering the cold Winters of Wisconsin;
The orange juice was squeezed from oranges picked in groves
Hanging on to the last little bit of unpaved land in Florida,
And the water in which I showered and shaved
And which was boiled in a pot on my stove for my breakfast
Flowed southward from somewhere near the Atlanta airport
Growing stronger and wider and deeper
By the time it hit the Spalding County line
Where the local municipal government
Gathered it through their great pipes
And pumped it eastward toward my house
Where I could harbor the illusion
That I am insulated from the outside world
In this little house on a hill
In Central Georgia.