Down that back road
that heads out of town
across the railroad tracks
past the water treatment plant
in a mobile home park
where howling dogs are
hooked with logging chains
to blue plastic
55 gallon drums
I see your eight kids
playing in your front yard
some in diapers
some in tidy whiteys
all of them shoeless
and shirtless
8” tall grass
littered with broken toys
beer cans
whiskey bottles
cigarette butts
a lawn mower with three wheels
an old refrigerator
and a couch
with the cushions missing
your driveway filled
with your shiny red
Ford F250 truck
fishing boat
motorcycle
an empty box
that held an 80” TV
leaning against
your overflowing
trash can full of used
lottery tickets
and PBR boxes
not everything can
be blamed on
the government