no clock hands

this is cow country,

old trucks and 

old Vote for Trump signs,

overalls and cowboy hats

mobile homes on the lakeside,

a ranch by this name

and a ranch by that name,

endlessly swaying green fields 

Mary Ann’s corner stop

with beer, whiskey and wine,

Spray And Pray Guns n Ammo

with (of course) guns n ammo

these are long dirt roads with

mailboxes in a cluster,

this is bass and crappie fishing,

cane poles and baitcasters

there’s a man with a bag,

a skinny scruffy lonesome man

crossing a small bridge

alone on this country road

there’s a wake of vultures

picking apart a raccoon carcass,

there’s a line out the door at the

local BBQ smokehouse 

its hard work trying to live easy,

their faces are sweat and sunburn

their truck windows are rolled down,

the sun is hotter here and determines

everything

  work, play and worship;

but there’s a chance here of living

longer and passing on peacefully

where these butterflies mingle

there’s no clock hands turning round,

the only times they talk of

are day and night,

who’s living right and who’s dying

(All photos were taken by me)