88 words
Old South, 1932
We would go down to watch
the fishmongers gut the bream,
father with hand on clutch,
a barge with smoke and steam
wed to our pickup dash,
the sun bright on the river.
Nettles in my rash
booze burning in my liver,
childhoods where whites ruled.
Now just more monkey talk,
the masses cucked and fooled.
The corn cob is but stalk,
no corn or yellow kernel.
The bream bleeds from the gill,
the smiling old white colonel
has his front gate and fill.
February 26, 2017