Westwind

Low and Rustic Life

 

You grew up in the dirt in the Louisville mud

with tree sap waking you to the schoolhouse where

little pink girls sat aside you so to marry

you, as you was the one going to rise yourself

up from the manure of your birth right.

 

You always thought your wits would get you far

away from us in this dirt, this dirt that ripened

you. This dirt that gave you thickness you chose

to shed. You wiped it from your face to, so you said,

unsully a sullied head, head of your mother, your father.

 

Your purple words got you to the university where

they teach you how ignoble was your present ignorance

and you recant your days of mudding around with

brothers and sisters in the outside, when better they

could have been spent with thick worded paper volumes.

 

One day you quit your churchgoing and said your time-

you said it like you owned this time–your time was better

spent in your studies away from your family, away from

your Maker. You left not soon after, to cut in to

that deeper level away from the surface of things, you said.

 

It is our hope that your rhyming and philosophizing

gives you some great pleasure which mother and I could not

attend to during your upbringing in this rural dirt. We hear

they where you have taken residence say unkind words of such

a lowly life as we begot you in, and for this, we are sorry.

 

—Kevin Mosby
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