I’m from bike spokes
and shy pokes
and night jokes and slim,
from skinned knees
and shelled peas
and B Bs and apples.
I worked hard,
cooked with lard,
read the Word,
watched the birds and sighed;
Why can’t I fly?
I learned to sing
from the hymn book’s notes;
I studied springs
to find the tadpoles’ holes.
I’m from Elkton and Fairview,
from Princeton and Cob,
from Cadiz, minding my biz,
from Gracey to Lacy school,
O yes, and Hopkinsville.
I’ve sat on a stump ’til the ants
made me move,
carved a penguin from a busted broom handle
with only a Barlow knife.
I watched my neighbors grow up
and lie down, raise up from their beds
spin stories we thought were dead,
turn right round again
and die moaning in pain.
The stories I was told
Are better than gold
because that’s where I’m from.