Found
Brandie Trent
I have found poetry
in the frayed plaid shirts of scarecrows.
It toddles naked between the bean vines,
sweats under blue collars,
and dances along mountain roads that lack their white lines.
It bows in the holy sanctuaries
of forgotten tobacco barns,
sways at the kitchen sink
(classic country music),
and rests in murky water bottoms.
Near roadside picnic tables,
it works with the men and
their hay rakes.
Intoxicated now,
I am the poet
rattling tin pans
to make my silent scream
crow out my shamed voice:
Let me drop these heavy years
like mountain roads drop their white lines;
let me crawl back to your blue collar let me get close to that crooked smile.
in the frayed plaid shirts of scarecrows.
It toddles naked between the bean vines,
sweats under blue collars,
and dances along mountain roads that lack their white lines.
It bows in the holy sanctuaries
of forgotten tobacco barns,
sways at the kitchen sink
(classic country music),
and rests in murky water bottoms.
Near roadside picnic tables,
it works with the men and
their hay rakes.
Intoxicated now,
I am the poet
rattling tin pans
to make my silent scream
crow out my shamed voice:
Let me drop these heavy years
like mountain roads drop their white lines;
let me crawl back to your blue collar let me get close to that crooked smile.