Along the Yadkin,
where leafless trees expose empty nests,
there is an earthen river odor,
rich and carnal.
In the newly mowed field
dank hay is spiraled in bales
ready for cattle consumption.

Household discards in a heap
nestle in vines and thistle,
then spill vulgar down the bank.
A gold enamel fry pan, crushed and limbless,
brown cooking oils film the bottom.
A stained and stinking sofa
musty, molded, bug infested
tingles my spine.

Wax drip on a plastic Christmas candle
now a weapon with jagged busted bulb.
Some bygone child’s plush Pooh bear
eyeless, tattered, ugly in matted fur.
Wood grain veneer peels back in curls
from the TV set, the screen kicked in
the plastic case melted and deformed,
Motorola, dials and rabbit ears.

I imagine the family,
bacon aroma and sizzle from the pan,
glow from the cheap decoration
orange warmth in a window,
early morning excitement in a child
over the toy beneath the tree.

The tiny family unit,
all of the workers and factories
the materials and knowledge,
all those careful miracles,
decay beside this river.

01/21/2006

Author's Note: I gots them lowdown brown river blues, and I's don't know whats to do...

Posted on 01/21/2006
Copyright © 2024 David Hill