Looking over fertile southern grounds
Where there might have been
An unthinkable tradition.
Today this house is falling
The land swallowing up
Whatever memories have gathered here,
Removing the stain that might have been.
Just up the road, I’m struck by a scene
Where a black man proudly drives a tractor
Pulling a bunch of white people
Across dusty fields in chicken wire trailers.
Even on their ride to pick pumpkins
The captives stare with a blankness
Inspired by their confinement
And pleasure of breathing fresh field dust.
At least this house
Survived long enough to see the change
Where a social reversal
Offered a bit of gallows humor.