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