Warren Pryor by Aldon Nowlan
When every pencil meant a sacrifice
His parents boarded him at school in town,
Slaving to free him from the stony fields,
The meager acreage that bore them down.
They blushed with pride when, at his graduation,
They watched him picking up the slender scroll
His passport from the years of brutal toil
And lonely patience in a barren hole.
When he went in the Bank their cups ran over.
They marveled how he wore a milk-white shirt
Work days and jeans on Sundays. He was saved
From their thistle-strewn farm and its red dirt.
And he said nothing. Hard and serious,
Like a young bear inside his teller’s cage,
His axe-hewn hands upon the paper bills
Aching with empty strength and throttled rage. 
No comments:
Post a Comment