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The poem mourns the disappearance of garden park varieties as a lost American good.

Its title promises praise, but the body turns immediately toward absence. The odd phrase garden park varities keeps the memory specific and slightly unstable, as if the good thing is already difficult to name.

Under the ironic title 'A Good Thing About America,' the poem mourns a loss: 'I don't think there are garden park varities / anymore....' The trailing dots and the misspelled 'varities' let the complaint dwindle into resignation.