A strong woman who yearns for the day when vultures stop trying to steal her home.
Her vista, on an aging front porch,
pans a broadening horizon;
sun creeping up, yellowing her eyes,
Mama doesn't see the skies.
Brilliant, gorgeous morning death
carves silhouettes from dusky autos;
suits tussled with crooked ties,
she knows each hand-sewn guise.
The backdrop can't hide their shame.
Stealth woman on a wooden rocker
rises to meet each angry dawn,
the briefcase dance and paper song.
Returning dogs beg for their meat,
eyeing up her bones in this dry heat.
She gives them nothing but a wry smile,
repacks their cases with their own guile.
On a clouding horizon whittled by heat,
tears may soon nourish their struggle to eat.
They don't know, despite manipulation and lies,
the sage, old woman doesn't see the skies.
The parched, hungry land yearns rain,
while greedy, pencil pushing men inflict pain.
Each sunrise, she feels them in her bones --
the owing and the owning, they say she owes.
She can't get the view with those voices,
but deep in her heart she still rejoices.
Mama knows she'll see the skies;
rain will come, bring relief to her eyes.