Poland Spring
A steam locomotive
rusted to tracks lies
in a ditch to bury
A kousa on a yard sale, final;
B&B rotted with soil pouring forth,
the roots exposed no longer able
to absorb the sweet life flowing
from the nozzle.
The sky turned blue
and the air was nipped.
The door was closed to dust
and how it moved turned the passerby.
The willows by the river turned dry
On the edge of an empty highway.
The wind blows strange 'round here
Onto the back of the limbs
of oxen plowing the fields, gettin' on
the sewed fields while the farmer stands
drinking from the whiskey jar.
He fires the still so he can kill
his last horse because a leg is broke.
The lady stands inside,
clean and narrow. She's gaunt inside and
tumbling down while her babe weeps but has learned
to shed tears in silence (they were never secumbed).
1930 came hard and starved
what was left of Oakies
sticking hard to land.
You wanted more when you asked
for less, it was not your fault
it all went wrong and hurt me.
Push'd 'round the grocer's,
we woke today with pain.
the cover's warmth is all
not to change while it ran me 'round.
A pistol shot rang the bells of hell
I done it for a thing I won't say.
He hit the ground, all that was left behind
was only what he tried to find.
Abiding the time and laws of the plains
made no sense no more and I know
I will not be condemned if I deny.
Copyright © William White | Year Posted 2008
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