Abandoning our aging horse,
worn plough, limp fields of weeds,
decrepit barn, bare scruffy yard,
our jalopy recedes
down dusty paths, through hills that, charred,
burn on Dad's brow its course.
His gnarled hands grip the steering wheel,
and sometimes brush his brow,
my grim-faced mother strokes his leg,
that's all he will allow
-- although he's broke he will not beg,
his backbone is of steel.
Curled up in back as Dad drives on,
there's Nellie, Jim, and me,
in silence we bump up and down,
away from Tennessee.
The rearview mirror shows a frown,
the eyes look stern, withdrawn.
Foreclosure is a word we'd heard,
and every time in yells
that rose and fell late in the night,
of arid fields, dry wells,
harsh banks, bad loans, and bugs that blight
the crops and spare a third.
An end had come to all we'd owned,
what wasn't towed decayed,
and so we piled up what was left,
wrapped up the masquerade.
We moved on knowing that, bereft,
Dad was a king dethroned.