11-23-2016, 06:04 PM
From a bench on a bluff in a park off a street
with a school and a church and a mill that ground wheat,
there’s a view of a lake that’s so grey and so bleak
that I’d sit and pretend I was looking at feet.
There’s a field by the shops where the children would play
with our baseballs and bats ‘til one mother would say
“All you kids should go home, or there’ll be hell to pay”
but my dad was a drunk, and could not be waylaid.
There were folks in the town that were folksy and sweet
like the butcher’s wife Joan who would package our meat,
who opined with a smile that our cut was unique
having been the hind leg of a stillborn black sheep.
with a school and a church and a mill that ground wheat,
there’s a view of a lake that’s so grey and so bleak
that I’d sit and pretend I was looking at feet.
There’s a field by the shops where the children would play
with our baseballs and bats ‘til one mother would say
“All you kids should go home, or there’ll be hell to pay”
but my dad was a drunk, and could not be waylaid.
There were folks in the town that were folksy and sweet
like the butcher’s wife Joan who would package our meat,
who opined with a smile that our cut was unique
having been the hind leg of a stillborn black sheep.