The line crew and the regulars at Micky-D’s

on an Friday morning, early,

weave a friendly, familiar tapestry in my memory.

Two state troopers and two EMT’s

getting off their night shift.

Contractors and a band of Mexican construction workers

on their way to their sites,

a third cup of high-test in hand.

The clatch of old white Romeo’s

(Retired Old Men Eating Out)

crabbing about those god-damn

politicians in Washington

and the union of the Presidents state,

the one floating round

in his aging brain.

“Hell! He’ll be 84 if he runs again!”

Mr. and Mrs. Brown,

going off to clean the big new homes

rich-white-northern-immigrants built,

“Ten, twelve room,

I heard!

But who knows?”,

over where slave quarters in Smithville

used to squat in the morning mist,

Spanish moss hanging from live-oaks,

looking for all the world

like whispering haints in the gloom.

The Browns rise up to leave.

A Romeo, Bobbie is his name, I think,

calls to Mr. Brown.

“Zeb! Y’all have a blessed day!”

Zeb’s wife, Olivia, as I remember,

smiles her glorious white toothed smile,

says, “If I don’t see you tomorrow, Honey,

I’ll see y’all at church!”

And everyone chuckles

’cause we all know a

good joke

when we hear one.

And the morning traffic noises grow louder

and our southern world stretches itself

into its new day

as a sun-lit, Golden Arch shadow

lays a facade across what will always be

Ol’ Dixie,

no matter what those

damn yankee say.