The Dirty South
Red clay clings to the heels of the lost,
Drifting through streets where the past still lingers,
A heat that hums like a preacher's pause—
Heavy with memory, thick with regret.
Bourbon pools in the cracked-glass dusk,
As magnolia ghosts whisper through fences,
Their petals wilting in the weight of time.
The train wails lonely across the river,
Carrying ghosts and gamblers alike,
Their debts unpaid, their voices drowned
Beneath the hush of cypress shade.
Cicadas chant their dry-lipped hymns,
The neon flickers, the jukebox groans,
A hymn half-drowned in static and smoke—
Somewhere a dog howls at nothing at all.
And the night, thick as molasses, sways.
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