The damned boll weevil hisses his good-bye
while cypresses drip low in steamed salute
and satchel-toting travelers multiply,
affixed to that bright dream—the absolute
reversal of their root. Their gospel hum
dissuades the Delta dog, his resolute
pursuit of traitors’ souls. The city’s drum,
the new unyielding, slaps old backdrops dark.
Chicago, frigid siren, murmurs Come
while hiding how she fails—December’s stark
and violent entry into bone, the ways
a factory’s drone can siphon every spark
of will. She boldly lures them with clichés:
the gilded path, the blur of black and white.
Seduced, they set their Southern pasts ablaze.
Intent on fresh religions, taking flight
without their wings, they’re stunned in hurtling seats.
This train moans in a way that ain’t quite right.