Black Caskets

abandoned boxcars,
shanty towns, and tents...
tumbleweed blown across the land.

day work, no work,
cigarettes, roll your own,
keep a fire under the pot!

old cars rusting,
just left by the road...
women and babies bathing

in service station sinks.
desperate hunger,
knock down the clerk,

grab the cash and run...
while ghostlike cities moan
and groan in the sun....

smokestacks still write epitaphs,
black caskets in a line!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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