Friday, November 25, 2011

One Way

I figured the time was ripe: I went home.
My father was dead, my mother alone.
She told me stories no one else would know.

My sister took her off to live alone.
I had no business there: My last trip home,
Mississippi headwaters my new home.

. . . that old home gone, polluted with shit stench
of Bar S cattle fattened by Mammon
on their one-way journey to perdition
wrapped behind the counter, beef same-day fresh.

(25 November 2011)

copyright 2011 by Floyce Alexander

1 comment:

  1. Yes, I can get there, unfortunately. This is a concise poem of a long terrible story of how history has unmade us.