Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Flour Sack Towels......
I wasn't born in Brooklyn,
Boston, or San Francisco -
or somewhere equally as interesting,
with its well-storied, cobblestone streets
I was born on the flatland prairies
of the Midwest.
Flyover fodder for coastal trendies.
A place where John Deere tractors rumble.
The smell of hot iron and grease
is thick and slick as rain
on the welder's floor.
The furrows in fields deep enough
flour sack towels like a grandmother.
These domestic cloths are all about
where you come from, who you are,
and where you are going. They travel light,
but their handiwork is heavy.
Poet and Children's Author