Roots

[couchgrouch]

RootsAs he gassed up his Olds at a southwest Arcohe saw an Indian woman with hair dark as charcoalselling moccasins and turquoise by the highwaysideyears of chewing jute left her teeth worn and rottedbut he never even made eye contact or noddedcos he was running late for an appointment that nighthis life ran deep as his glossy Florsheim'sand his Fortune Five Hundred suitwhile that lady lived on dollars and dimesshe made by selling off her rootswell, he never knew much about his great-grandfatherbig deals were being made and he shouldn't have bothereddriving to his wake during such a busy weekhe mingled with cousins among photos and candlesthen saw a faded picture of a young boy on the mantelriding a mustang bareback with deerskins on his feetthen he thought of history's buried seedsand the sweet taste of its fruitsand how he'd let worthless weedschoke the mem'ry of his rootshis soft hotel sheets chafed him all night longhe made it back to that roadside stand by dawnthat old woman's hand shook in the morning chillwhen he paid for moccasins with a hundred dollar billas he drove off in his wingtips and shiny suitthose buckskin shoes shone brighter cos they were his roots(c)2006 Robert George