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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
Copyright ©
Gary Jones
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