Meet Murky Running

I was named Murky Running after
the dream my father had of fields
raw with poppies, cannabis,
women, and the children they shared
like bum wine to a bum circle.
Labor, labor, always labor
on the poor earth wishing salt
on its face like the penchant slug
whipping itself clean.
He was and is a flower stuck
to the bottom of the working poors’
shoes and the ash landing on them.
Once a year
he takes us all out to visit
his parents, one in a vase
and the other in a room
so soft it doesn’t talk back.
Sometimes, only sometimes,
if the moon and stars are dark
enough, if they allow me
but a few hours rest on the floor,
I forget I am
whiter than talcum.

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~ by Jeremy on February 1, 2011.

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