When he scratched his matted
gray hair that looked like the
throw rug on the floor, the only
reminder in his house of his
grandmother, the one who
raised him with the belief
that he was sweet gold, he
cried, not the whimper cry of
a baby, but the hollow cry of
an adult so buried in his pain
that even God would put the last
shovel of dirt on his grave if
He could.
But when he looked out the
dirt-glazed window near the
straw chair where he moaned,
numbed by acts of recognition
that he could have received
if he had been conceived in
a less cautious era, he felt
the heat of the Delta sun's
back on his body, having
been ploughed by misery's
moves, now being embraced
by the sun's warmth as if the
"enfant terrible" were sending
him anew the final feel of
what he had trod under all
his life.
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