Lancaster Pa
Killdeer Farm, at midnight, I bellied an open bay
window. Its ledge mentioned the pounds I've earned,
and for a second I lost self-esteem. A foul wind came up,
did ungodly things to me; open my top, rubbed me a bit with
cold feet, gave wings to linens on a line. The lights
were gray, the darks were dressed in night. I heard them,
their wings flopping, they could not go free. I saw the cruelty,
I did not say a word. I was afraid of letting bugs
into my mouth. To the west, the cornfields were null and void;
their darkness was upon the face of the deep, but when
my mind rushed me toward a bad conclusion, I told myself,
Lancaster is a triangle with three different sides. I saw
House Rock Road, Pequea & Chickies Hill on Route 441
looking toward Columbia. It was there I laughed boisterously
without the fear of bugs passing close to the realm of my lips.
Pennslyvania is my Pennslyvania & your Pennslyvania.
Copyright © Francis Brown | Year Posted 2020
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