Cotton Stomper

The stars sparkle through Red painted aluminum mesh The walls of my room A soft constant rain Of cotton falls upon my head I watch the bright sky The organic smell Of the earth and the diesel fumes Permeates the air A cool breeze tickles The sweat beads upon my forehead Reminds me to rise On wobbly feet I begin to stomp up and down Within the snowy chamber As I do my work Singing, ‘I’m a cotton stomper That is what I be” Falling back to bed My endless pondering of What tomorrow brings © Copyrights G. Jones 2008 When I was a small boy, my uncle would place me inside the cage of the cotton picker. My job was to stomp the cotton down to compress it. When it was in the evening with a cool breeze, I thought it was the best job in the world. ~Gar