The yellow sky and blue white hills that rose
In the autumn of the earth. The cold and
Sometimes snow of the Smoky Mountains kept
Out the tears when looked on in a certain
Eye. The old man’s spitting years sputtered through
Like cleaning up. Like the skin from a dead
Snake, he pealed the bark of the mulberry,
A fiber to weave his back while also
Staying Cherokee in the November season.
He made his time in the casino to
Trade drink for play and wondered if this should
Be life to rob the weak to pay the poor.
To pay the weak to rob the poor. To pay
The cowboy to see the Indian play.
therichardbraxton 