before elvis and long before dylan
when the roads were all two-lane
and the poverty shacks
jumped right out
to the pavement or gravel
from the black soil
and if you look closely
it's all still there
more hidden
behind tall pines and sawmills
paper mills
abandoned cotton fields
trash burning power plants
never getting the recycle message
every
lonesome whistle voice
jabs
you in the ribsskinny ribs at that
that's not a twang you're hearing
but a moan
by the time summer comes
you won't be sweating
the small things
but looking for a
last-chance way out
from this downward spiral hell
they're trying to sell you
as so-called reform
when
the fog finally lifts
hank
williams will still beyodeling from his grave
in every whistle
a long refrain
---
e b bortz
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