township (hands)

There is a blind man, in the house at the end of the road

whose big black hands are used to cover his mouth

when he coughs his miner’s cough.

And it matters little that he cannot see

when he plucks unrequited-

in a six string salsa.

The girls in pink Sunday dresses

that dance field dances, curl their fingers together, singsong.

They have never known where their songs come from.

They know only to never near the big black man’s house

because they fear his big black hands.

This is a town where nobody sees.

Behind the market a beautiful girl wearing white light gloves

lays the babe with such shaky hands,

in a summer dry creek bed,

tucked tight in a bright white lace blanket.

She waves to it goodbye, the reeds dance in the breeze,

forever forgetting a family’s silence.

Negligence.

The girl touched too many times hopes to rid the evidence.

Wild dogs run shards of red lace through town days later.

She lives in a town where nobody speaks.

The graveyard voices whisper in a low drone

of due dates and done dates

and around the memory stones

untouched strawberries grow.

Warm tailed squirrels partake in paws

and dead on the road not one hears the sound of

the berry filled bellies that were fed by grandpa’s bones.

This is a town where nobody hears.

The Maker often looks down upon His town

and feels his hands are not big enough.