Clifton King (December 24,1943 / Long Beach, California)

I remember a small shack
in a dark corner of the Georgia woods,
walls made from apple boxes
and scrap lumber.
I still feel those hot summer nights
and warm rain the roof let in.

I remember Papa with his pipe.
The flare of wooden matches,
that bitter whiff of sulfur,
the sweet aroma of tobacco
mingled with the pungent
perfume of Georgia Pines.

I still hear the far off cry
of a train whistle in the night,
and Papa’s stories
about ridin’ the Macon Line.

I remember the night they came:
the torches; the shouting;
the rope with its ugly knot,
noose pulled wide enough
to swallow a man.

I’ll never forget that toss of rope
over the limb of a Georgia Pine,
men struggling with Papa,
the snap of rope pulled taut,
the grunts and squeals,
the kicking,
the silence,
and Papa’s shoe on the ground.