Suspect

He is the one
They all know he done it
He was
Run out the country
For it
So now when they walk
Under a tree and it quakes
They look up scared
Half to death
And deep furrows
Turn over
In their brow
Like tractors
What does he do
Drink
And play moon
At the pool hall
Read the good book
And of a morning
Even before the molasses
Has had its time
He's up and walking
That long fence row
Of his farm called
You can't never go back
Dreaming
Running his hand along
The barbed wire
Chewing the life out
Of the sweet grass
Praying misery be fair
In all my trials
Saying to himself
No one knows
The trouble
That comes looking
For me
One of these days
At dark
In plain view
I'll settle all of this
The holy ghost
Willing
With a sheet of paper
With my name
And my fists

© Ginny Stanford