Lately, in dreamland,
I’m living in a rich dowagers
wisteria vine and spanish moss draped
live-oak shaded mansion, dilapidating down
through three centuries of mist and mold.
All that’s left of him
is the scent of his cigars smoke
sunk deep into their war-map-draped walls,
reminders of the late unpleasantness,
and his skin flakes and dandruff,
stuck in dust, hidden in dark corners and beneath
frayed carpets shrouding worn mahogany floors,
once gleaming, where he waltzed
his belle of the cotillion,
this Old Lady
who I have not yet seen
but sense in the atmosphere
of this weary confederated plantation
where the whip tracks on the backs of its blacks,
who were never, ever, truly brought to heel,
are not, yet, faded enough to be declared healed,
where I have come to know that I am
hated past forgiveness by the
Old Lady’s ancestors and by her
great grand daughter, whose son, hunting somewhere,
or to drunk to remember,
there is a war on, here, still,
against this latest insult to The Dream.
These God-Damns have marched down here again
for lower taxes, cheaper land and a warm sand doze,
to squeeze the blood, still oozing
from an unstitched minni-ball gut shot
or a sawed-off knee-calf-foot
tossed on a blood soaked limb pile,
as her unscathed blonde heir
waits tables, slipping her tips
to wedge into her glorious cleavage
while retired federals leer
and stuff their already sclerotic arteries
with Southern hush-puppy delicacies
and a bottle of cold beer.
Her Husbands white sheet folded neatly
in the camphored pine chest
at the foot of their canopied bed.
Her Fathers saber, now shinning,
sheathed in the attic closet.
Both waitin’ on
the fullness of their time
to rise again.