Everyone thinks of me as trash,
and I reckon I am trash—
pitiful, neglected, in need of lye soap, a Bible
and a Bible-thumpin' for good measure.
I don't care about all that.
I've lived with it long enough. I reckon I judge them
about as hard as they judge me. It's Becky
I'm thinkin' about. She can't,
or won't, look beyond what her eyes see.
She can't, or won't, see the man. I'm a good man.
Someday I'll prove it. For now,
Tom has her. He doesn't know what he has,
nor does he appreciate her. He takes a lot for granted,
and pokes fun, and has fun.
He's had a few knocks, but nothin' hard.
I'm a-leavin', but I'll be back, I'll be back for Becky.
I hope she grows up by then, I hope
she becomes the woman I think she'll become.
I hope she knows the difference between a man and a boy.
I hope she knows I'm the man,
and Tom—Tom will be a boy until the day he dies.
Poetry by jim
Read 251 times
Written on 2017-06-10 at 02:50
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