The Last Dirt Road

The last dirt road he ever drove
Was on his uncle’s funeral day;
The fields were green, the sky was white,
The air was full of clover hay

And past the fields he used to work
He saw the old familiar plow,
Then stared in frigid silence for
He never could admit it, now —

Behind his aviators, he
An urban, slick sophisticate;
If he let this dirt on him now
He’d never hear the end of it

So who he was he will deny,
Beneath his starched and ironed shirt:
Oh, no, he’s made of finer stuff
Than you and me and all
This dirt

Tagged: Tags

2 Thoughts to “The Last Dirt Road

Leave a Reply