Purgatory, Kentucky

It got to where I couldn’t see a way
ahead except for dying. So I went.
So here I am. Just where, I couldn’t say.
It’s odd. Some kind of grass, or cane, all bent

this a way and that, slick at the root,
and spiky sharp half the time, black as coal,
but soft enough to lie down in, some spots.
I’d a slept more, but my dreams is full

of nasty animals and dead presidents.
I got attacked by a whole fleet of armadillos
in a river. An armada. Is that what you call it?
Abraham Lincoln himself chopping wood. “Hello

Mr. Penny Man,” I said. He spoke not a word.
But this ain’t Hell. Of that I am assured.

_____
This was a challenge poem–I wanted to write a poem JUST FOR my reading tonight at UW-Manitowoc (which was terrific–thanks, Jessica!). So the Manti folks suggested I write about Boyd Crowder’s hair, Abraham Lincoln chopping wood, and an armada or armadillos.

I’m imagining Mags Bennett’s voice here. Might write some more of these.