The Potholed Road


The potholed road
Far from soothes.
Through an army
Of level grass,
It limps.
The holes are
Scars, telling
Travelers
Of heavy wear.

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Baby Elaine


Baby Elaine
Beneath the cedar tree
Exactly three months old
Just a square of concrete
Is all we can behold.

God places little flowers here
With His almighty hand
As if a gift to all below
Who on the black road stand.

“Gone to a better land”
With a lamb crudely carved
Was all they could afford
When in 1932
The whole land starved.

A blanket of soft green grass
Caresses those feet that tread
A comfort to those who wait,
Still living here, for bread.