LOW COUNTRY

Sitting on the screened terrace in a gentle rocker at sunset
watching the gilding grass turn to purple at sundown

Dusk leaves the island in mist
Spanish moss hangs from large limbed oaks
reaching over the road
leading from Myrtle Island to Savannah

Beside the still surface of the sea shrimp and snow crab
feed souls lost in the rush for land and money

Whiskey stands on the counter waiting ice
falling into an empty cocktail glass
eager to ease an aching heart at twilight
on the marsh after another day of golf
on greens and fairways manicured
by latinos and blacks riding mowers
down and around man made courses
carved from forests of pine, palmettos
magnolias and maple

Meanwhile in the clubhouse over seven n seven
and single malts wealthy white men watch
declining stock quotations run silently
as subtext to political coup d  etat—
quietly loathing Gore’s struggle against
the ruthless right
storming the election hall
chanting “Stop the Vote!”
in a state where gators are kinder
than George Bush and the GOP

tomas 2000