in the years before he died
of lung
cancer, used to talk
longingly
about
the money he would one
day inherit,
once the land was sold.
family land,
from three generations
back.
civil war land.
he'd get this look in his
eyes, paint
brush in his hand, and
say,
one day, one day.
i'm going to build a cabin
in the woods,
up there in the hills
where i can't be bothered.
i could have a dog
and maybe a bunch
of rabbits.
my own still.
he'd get this big grin on
his face,
a cigarette dangling
between his lips.
maybe i could find a good
woman up there too.
someone to keep me warm
at night.
we'd love each other.
that's nice, Jake i'd tell him.
that's nice.
but be careful, you're dropping
ashes into the paint.
No comments:
Post a Comment