Midwest Nest
Here in my suburban acre of Ohio;
I feel the generations,
the hungarians, the irish and germans,
the dutch, the blacks, the shawnee.
We are not a melting pot,
we are birds and critters brought here
by wild, wild winds.
I am a grackle
with my own grackle language,
I expect you who live in the same tree with me
have your own way
of making a home in this land.
Heartland is the root we share,
The root is lazy days in PJ’s.
Hectic mini-van school runs,
sweats for Walmart and yelling at stuff.
One dress tie for special occasions.
Most of us are not poor or rich,
Most of us about nothing much.
We don’t love our guns,
we simply keep them
in case those who don’t understand
want to mess with what we’ve earned.
My neighbor is a mourning dove,
Her son is a possum that loves to play
video games from dawn to dusk.
My pal is a rooster, a gnarly-handed poet,
don’t ask him to write anything
he might think those fighting words.
I like being a grackle, but I married an anhinga
from Florida.
She is adjusting.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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