We strike out on what has become A back road – this was an open vein Down which King Cotton once flowed.

Sweet Jesus! How many lashes, and How many bones of blood Hounds and men – both master and slave Looking at each other under the mirror of Red clay – lie under the asphalt road Shimmering like a mirage under summer sun?

Yes one has to admit, here there was once Graciousness and beauty in hoop skirts too. Old silver gleamed under chandeliers in Antebellum homes, and feet twirled to The fiddles played to the imagined Rhythms of banned drums.

Of that time, the waxy drawn out Speech (we sure do talk real slow Down here ) and religiosity (now Billboards that mix one measure Of messiah with one measure of Patriotism – JesUSAves, yes sweet Jesus again!) still stud this land

As we pass through a chain of towns With one traffic light and one level crossing, Each with a Main Street lined with scabby Gutted brick buildings and boarded up stores, Houses with wide porches, in which speckled Old men in suspenders and bill caps rock away Long afternoons and lunches of Cornpone and fired chicken.

And a stray black man shuffling down These lonesome streets, still carrying Wariness (and weariness) under his shirt. Sweet Jesus! What am I doing here, A brown man driving around with you, White woman, impossible wife (marrying You would have been breaking law and Facing prison roughly hundred years ago)?

You press my free, raging hand As we quickly shoot through Ugliness – chain shit-taurants (Billions and billions of ‘shit’ Already served), chain stores (Where young women can work At the counters all days and go To bed hungry), and sheds in The distance smelling of chicken Shit or hog shit.

And then we burst into Grace – mile upon mile Of pecan orchards. Sweet Jesus! How can I not take Down the instruments from The willows, and not sing One of Lord’s songs to you, Sweet woman, strange woman, Whose hand I clutch at every Year, harder and harder?