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Poor White Trash

                                                             By
                                                      Patrick Kelly

 The sun sinks low over shanty town there, a sweating woman sits on a 
 dilapidated porch.
 She sees herself in the eye of her mind and pictures appear of what might have 
 been.
 She retains her rocker and sweats in unquenched heat, unrelenting ferocity of 
 the beaten down poor.
 With a cigarette between chap lips, she fights off the need to cook, her energy 
 long departed along with the good of life.
 In a silent rage, she screams in anguish yet, there is no one to listen and 
 nowhere to run.
 Too suddenly, her hair has turned to gray. 
 Her beauty, slowly decaying til all is lost.
 Now, wrinkles vanquish the smooth complexion of her youth.
 No longer does she smell the sweet aroma of her bed, its luster gone, along 
 with her pride, with too much despair and too little money.
 Sometimes she walks the old dirt road, waiting for the heat to burn off and the 
 night to embrace the coolness of the late hours.
 She dreams of things that might have been before youthful lust became a 
 nightmare.
 She could have walked in beautiful gardens, her home, a pleasure to herself and her one time proud spirit.
 She wills the madness to subside, her thoughts splintered upon her return to 
 realization and the unrelenting heat, dirty dishes and that drunk she calls a 
 a husband.
 Wiping a hand across her sweaty brow, she turns to retrace her steps to her 
 lowly shelter and the realisation that she is poor white trash.

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