Thursday, 12 January 2012

Main Street by Bobby Stevenson

The warm air blows off the panhandle for the second time that week,
As the old wooden chair on grandfather’s porch
Creaks its way to salvation.
And Brittle Andrew howls his madness and  frustrations into the wind
But there ain’t no one listening, not even God.
He’s left these parts a while back.
Somewhere out there in the Mississippi, an alligator,
With wasted stealth, sits waiting on its prey to pass its mouth but it never will,
Least  not this particular night.
And hanging from a swamp dogwood tree is the crumpled body of Leroy Shants
Who broke the code of entering the ice cream parlor while
Those troublesome white kids were taking a lifetime to leave.
The Pastor sits looking at his wife wondering how he’d got to be where he’s at,
As Betty Sue spends the final hour of the day putting on some makeup she knows
Is all wrong and does what she always does and cries herself to sleep.
Undertaker Boy swigs another sweet bourbon knowning that he’s  jealous of the dead,
And as my eyes weld shut, the rain falls on Mitchell County and washes away the blood.
Main Street has made it through another day.

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