On the Delta
errol miller
Dogs,
they bark this heart of mine
to morning
something
about Dixie, its ruined prune-like face
its starving Delta, nights across town
in brackish brown water bars
filled with trivial unnamed stars
spoiled peaches and beer
and small change for the jukebox
always dust curls up from rural routes
pork meat simmers on wood cook stoves
the blur that is tomorrow upon the tenants
out back the blues singer from Memphis
dies of an overdose of loneliness
a little river of imperfection
flows down from the Northern Regions
that abrasive Preservation Society of lack
want and need and poverty; a toast to something
as motorized sweeping machines spread out
across dawn’s first light
bumper-to-bumper crystal chandeliers
depicting Tara as it really was
the bad is hot, the crowd huge, no admission
tropical atmosphere, always there is music
and sweating waitresses stoned
on wisteria-scented perfume, U.S. visitors
with plastic money wanting steak and seafood
now is not a holiday as fireworks detonate
in sizzling cypress lean-to cafes
if you’re born close to home
you usually stay there
pressed between cotton and alluvial soil
and the 23rd chapter of Psalms
