Paper Crosses
The preacher took shelter under the shade of a freeway arch, stood on an upturned crate with one palm to his heart, the other turned to the crowd of gathered homeless Without a buck to their name, all torn shirts and bare feet, grateful to be alive They closed their eyes and pointed their paper crosses skywards as 50-grand trucks just cruised on by Those same trucks overtook me in my son’s beat up Taurus, I’ll admit I was embarrassed In their raised pickups, looking down at me over tanned forearms, they pitied me I sulked into the slow lane for a while as clouds blocked the sun I consciously made an effort to think about the reason for the journey – my father, a proud guy He’d raised me and my sister in Giddings, Texas Towards the South, bang in the middle The summers were unbearable Yet six days out of seven, my old man blasted through a ten hour shift, without a single word of complaint Understandably, he spent those Sundays off doing as little as possible - football on the tv, beer in his hand, a real stereotype He didn’t say much but I sensed he enjoyed his life Unlike me, he was a natural provider The way he looked at our evening meals, knowing he put them there, that gave him all he needed I didn’t want any of that shit I ain’t hobbling round my house with a crooked spine for the sake of a five dollar steak I couldn’t grasp it Not when those bastards drain the land he worked on, sucking every dollar out of it And when they ran out, they send our brothers to some godforsaken desert to shoot women and children to gather more The juice didn’t seem worth the squeeze Maybe that’s why I’m cramped in Casey’s Taurus, sweating the t-shirt clean off my back My sister left town as soon as she hit 18, moved to Austin to set up some sort of incense store or some shit I haven’t seen her in years Truth be told, none of us have It crushed my dear ol’ mother to see her go, dementia seemed to kick in almost right away
