fall down wringer washers
on fall down porches
pass inside as you ride down
just big enough to look out
and show  the doll you never wanted
so you pulled out  her hair
bald better than born  she rags
not if you were born in champaign i say
not if you were born in illinois
in secret she moves her lips to say
those two up front making war
are from a south that is passing   
though they notice nothing
but the knives they plunge
anger too big for this box you call a shivvy

i can't reach them so i throw her out the window
then realize i am alone      shiver
though it's roasting with the windows down
afraid
of the poverty
in and out
afraid
of the darkness of  unpainted shacks    little
brave braids called plaits
know now
sick sweet honeysuckle and the slick
between lumps of Arkansas gravel
tell me is home
isn't mine     isn't yours
or would you stand barefoot on dirt hookworms love
little do i know
lucky children draw futures with sticks
of anger and spots of beauty
if they are extra lucky   together?

(c) Phyllis Jean Green
     {Revision of a poem published by
       Pangloss Papers in January, 1988}