words

VIII.

He built the moon.

 

Climbed up a ladder,

stuck it up there real good

called it a masterpiece

and when the glue started to crumble

he prayed we’d never find out.

 

Even though he raised us to travel to space

Urged us to explore the universe.

Wanted us

To see

It all.

 

How shocked we were to find that even something

As solid

As the man in the moon

Could be less than perfect

If you looked at it close enough.

VII.

When momma died
They all came and asked
“What are ya gonna do with them?”

And you responded
“Tie 'em in a sack and throw 'em in the river”
And the looks of horror on their faces
Sparked a Parish wide baking fest
And their husbands came laden with
Cakes and pies and apologies and
All of the other stuff that people don’t need when they’ve lost someone.

They all said it,
Men can’t raise children.

trailer trash

“He ain’t trailer trash”

“He is too”

“Living in a trailer don’t make you trailer trash”

“He’s got a security system in his trailer”

“Only cause the meth heads kept breaking in”

“He has three taxidermic heads hanging on the wall”

“You wouldn’t think that was trashy if it were in a real house”

“He ain’t in a real house, he’s in a trailer, and the trailer only has a single wheel and the rest is propped up on cinderblocks, and on Sundays he shoots his pistol from the front step into the pasture and prays to God he hits one of those cowbirds, and he calls it Church.”

“Well…. we all worship in our own ways.”

IV.

The hardest part of leaving

Is packing your bags,

Getting in the truck,

And backing out

Of the driveway.

 

But once you hear gravel flying and home is

Just a silhouette in the rearview mirror

It gets a whole lot easier.

 

All you’ve got to do is put a thousand miles

And a couple of years

Between you and whatever you’re running from

And then staying gone is as easy as waking up every morning,

Putting your boots on,

And going to work.

II.

II.

Remember when we rode around

On bicycles that could fly

And the sound of gravel under the wheels of a

Buick

Meant that we were almost home.

And we caught rabbits in five gallon buckets

And birds.

When faces rubbed with the blood of a deer

We raced around a campfire

Squealing

With delight.

 

I slept under the clouds

We leapt across hay bales

And sprinted down the turn row, last one to

Reach the cotton is a rotten egg

First one has to smell it

Better wake up before the

Hoot owls get you.

And we fell asleep to the man in the moon

Peeking out the limbs of an old oak tree.

Remember when we would race to the cow lot

Draped with Spanish moss

Watch out for snakes