Thursday, May 1, 2014

Marge Merrill poem for CLOUDBURST

There's Nothing Here

A road trip to P A
opportunity to connect
places I heard about ad nauseum
at the dinner table.

Motion sickness braved
to see the house
(there were many houses)
next to the crick
the crick that flooded in oh-two.

Uncle Ott was killed in the Big Three mine.
As was your Grandfather.
Uncle Harry and Uncle Christopher
slaved above ground in the oil fields
a salad of names worked the earth.

Farms, floods people that sort of
looked like those unsmiling, stiff folks
from the shoebox photos.

A dime as strangers pass the Presbyterian plate,
thank God, I know why they left everything
but their roots.

There’s nothing here.

Postcard Poetry Fest
August 2013

# 20


Marge Merrill

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