There is a dried-out patch of dirt I'll be drawn back to before I die; a cluster of heat, frustration, and poverty. No matter how modern I make myself, I'll only ever be that boy in the dirt, fighting off gnats while pretending to be somebody: pretending, but never dreaming.
5 comments:
Lights out, John boy.
I am Daddy. Just wrapping up this last poem.
Love you, son.
You too, Mamma.
(lights out... harmonica fade out)
sometimes, little buddy, you just have to pick up your horn and practice!
throw down your shovel and head for the hills.
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