by Earl J. Wilcox
Here in the forever and ever sunny South,
we still elect Republicans and a
few Democrats. We still cook grits,
chitlings, pigs’ feet, liver mush, and
a few other things the rest of the world
never ate. We also send our sons and
daughters to a war, which we have not forgot.
But what’s on our minds today is not
war or exotic food, or even the writers’
strikes in NYC and Cal-E-fornia. We
are dry. We need rain. We pray for water.
Our lawns have dried up because we
can’t water them. Our trees are dying
because we have had no rain in months.
(Forget our beautiful flowers and shrubs.)
My neighbors’ wells are drying up, and they
have little money to dig deeper, even if water
were somewhere down there close to China.
When you say your prayers tonight, it’s OK
to mention Iraq, especially all those moms and
pops who have lost children there. It’s OK to
dream of a long and happy life with someone
you love. Our best dreams are just dreams.
But before you say amen, ask for some rain.
If we don’t get some soon, we’ll be moving
To where you live to drink your water.
Earl J. Wilcox founded The Robert Frost Review, which he edited for more than a decade. His poetry was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
