there will be food in our mouths, there will be teeth in the grass

simpleton hands
mixing the mud
spread out spread out
separated by
the biggest fields
and wet on by the biggest skies

a strawberry field
fert for the farm
pickin berry
tiny hands
spread with sugar-n-
biscuits-n-whip

lookin out the kitchen
window at the north
thinking of faulkners
sanctuary south cause your copy
is new and popeye
makes you think of spinach
not moonshine
and corn cobs are for pipes
not rape.

a stare and the turn around
and around. slapping of
shoes on the porch floor
dusted boards
and the kids need some
lemonade. the man needs
a banjo
the neighbor boys father
plays guitar, mostly gospel
and sometimes they join
on the porch
if the suns just right
and the breeze is cool
enough to make the sweat
evaporate faster than normal.

sweet sweet pies too.
let them cool on the sills
the scent draws in
the rascal boys like sweeeet magnolia
draws bees they aim to steal
the nectar off your sill but not no more
them boys haffa go hungry
or rely on tha food the mamas give em.

the neighborhood stray limps his skinny ribs
near a mile for a chance at a scrap
cause he aint been lone long enough
to know hes wasten more than he gains
and every extra step he makes
is a step to the turkey vulture

a slower than usual set
red sky at nite
but the rivers miles away
we're just happy replacing pies on the sill
pickin berries, playin music
and watchin that crazy dog die.