Lines Down Hwys 44 and 395

I love these locked-away places
where everyone has a garden plot
and dreary overhanging clouds,
where dried-out husks
of abandoned homes lay rusting against
a backdrop of flushing
lichen lining rotten horse fence,
the lives of the humble stock
on highway 395.
Where the big-breasted earth mother lies
forgotten under scrap piles of rusted-
out tractors and trucks,
soaking up the muddy creek water
singing to the broad willow man of the
still mill pond;
where horses shaggy in their winter coats
still paw the springy dirt and crop
the peach fuzz grass.
Where the sodden Scotch-Irish drink
their last goodbyes down
the gentry road of highway 44,
where the lily-pad fairies still sing the songs
of hill-billy jack hands and
worthless ass basset hounds.
Where the back two parts of Kentucky
are still worlds of good smells.