George Washington

In the night of every morning

when I leave my daughters to go to that empty place

is when I pass it-

I used to hear the hum of insects

or just the mist of silence-

The field once had only sky and light

and darkness settled there at night

into the quiet of wheat growth.

It filled me with breath

the rubber and air spinning beneath me to carry me onward.

Now I see through the glass the once empty field 

now pumped full of houses, drawn up like a circus

almost overnight.

Landscaped hills, manufactured mulches,

pathways of pavement.

The once empty field is gone

like my father was gone

with his daughter, my sister,- left, a stump of a kid.

The trees almost in rows

like teeth.

And I can see the house where I grew

up into something other than a boy

the kind of construction that leaves one vacant.

It was there I learned the art of making histories

creating narratives to hope in or distract from-

And how about this pond for drainage?

As fictional as American History-

behind every idol, there's a god.

Cincinnatus goes home.

Washington goes home.

I can never leave home. 

(Note: 3rd Draft (12/06/22)

________________________________________________________________

The once empty field now pumped full

of houses, drawn up like a circus

almost overnight.

Landscaped hill. Manufactured mulch-

pathway of pavement.

The city planner is always one-step

behind--the children using the railings

as monkey bars.

The trees almost in rows

like teeth.

And how about this pond?

As fictional as American History-

behind every idol, there's a god.

Cincinnatus goes home.

Washington goes home. 

Note: (2nd Draft (12/4/22))