It's not a mistake, I work to pay you
We’ve all heard this before, haven’t we
At least anyone in the working class South
Land of blood sweat and holes your shoes
Holes from walking from one dead-end job to another
Somehow the bills have to be paid
Land of scratched off lottery tickets from the last dollar spent blowing in the wind
And the same fingers that would finish the day by punching a time clock
Would start a night of writing by punching the keys of a typewriter
Typing words out
Bringing characters to life in the thick humidity of Florida so many years ago
Gathering thoughts like a child gathers his toys
Yet constantly distracted by the chaos of living on the edge of what I called life
Sitting, remember how fast it has all gone by
Trains running in the distance with sounds that fall in the night
Into the darkness they fade away like I soon will do
Finally lying down to rest
Falling to sleep lost in the thoughts of what once was and most likely will come
Morning dew settles as I open my eyes
And the flowers now drip with its wetness
Soaked in diamond-dot shining
Time to get moving on the next thing to write
To put down what I see and feel of the world around me
For the world's been my teacher
She’s always on time
Her people, my study, in the Southern School Of Life
Published at The Camel Saloon May 12 / 2011
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| Photo By Jason E. Hodges |
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