Poem #29

Hill of Beans

The doughnut shop isn’t up to code;
danger makes a delicious dish.
Here, hello is flash-fried catfish.

Go ahead, eat up,

When we leave our fruit trunk side,
a woman in the far right lane
does all she can to tell us.

When we walk the dog
after dark and take a photo
of the moon peeking up above
a steeple to tickle orgiastic sheets
of stained glass, some man
across the street asks,
Y’all from around here?

We were, a long time ago.

The dog pulls on his leash.

He points
behind us, says,
That’s a black church.
Disappears up the street.

He isn’t much older than my brother.


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