Saturday, May 5, 2007


Here I stand with my son,
my car Franklin, and me.
What am I doing?
I am never going to get out of the dust.
But I can’t stay here forever.
I can’t just rot out here like an old carcass.
All my life I have lived in dust.
How every time the wind blew, the dust danced around you.
I am not going to die out here from this miserable drought.
I’ve never seen grass in so long.
Never seen the forest green trees
The birds chirp like beautiful music
The wonderful smells of the beautiful daisies and roses
Or the taste of the fresh bisquits and mashed potatoes.
What happened?
After pushing my car for about an hour,
I think I can’t leave this place,
This dusty dry Oklahama panhandle is just a place I like to call Home.

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