Waycross

Waycross rain falls heartily,
heavily, torrentially
sweeping across swampland,
filling the edges of the roads
brimming full, green, mossy
You take care now,
take a long look at each log
searching for the hidden eyes,
little triangle teeth hidden on edges,
and the snakes slide on,
I stare out at the grey slanting rain
dilapidated houses, bbq joints,
and the ever present Wal-mart in the distance,
I want to be in the open,
not this shithole hotel,
dirty, and broken, smoke filled
and racous with the laughter
of a madman watching conmen with delight,
the bruises are starting,
eggplant and yellow blossom brightly,
but it’s too cold to wear shorts anyway,
even here, in this Georgia swamp
famous for it’s heat and sweat,
It is instead dank, cold, wet
stagnant,
It reflects the way my mind feels,
I am lonely, tired, and defeated,
I used a stick found in the parking lot
next to a rusted out car, must’ve been years
since that thing was real,
to brace broken fingers
ease them in taut constriction,
I am sore, inside and out
Life would be easier if I would just comply
But I am not made for passive compliance,
I am not meant to be owned,
My rib aches dully, days now
since it snapped under pressure,
this is nothing new, and nothing can be done
but wait for the ache to blend with others,
then peter out slowly into nothing,
I came here for the swamps,
for the snakes, and the gators,
the history and the swamp people,
I stay because I’m too broke to leave,
Because I can’t escape,
And I don’t know where to go