Caraway

I grew up
in the beds
of dusty used
pick-up trucks,
bouncing down
back gravel roads,
over wooden
bridges splitting
rich Dixie dirt
into poor farmer

size chunks of

sandy brown hope.

Where long straight

rows of cotton

kept company

with cockle burrs

who seemed to arrive

by night in silent

wooden horse.

My mother cooked

and doctored and

played with us,

Father shook his belt
and wrote bad checks
when he had to.
Sundays after church

at Grandma's house

with cousins and

uncles and aunts

we had our fill of

food and fun and family

and seldom knew

 the blues.