True Americana

Blood

Sweat

And tears all lay down beneath a peach tree.

Legs wide open as she wears her favorite pink nightgown

Sitting on her favorite rocking chair

On her favorite porch

That her daddy built

That’s True Americana.

And as she looks out she will tell you of histories long gone

Of stories rinsed by the ebb and flow of time

Of bygone ages

That you could see yourself in

Of the most unholiest times 

In the holiest of places.

Old, grayed photos make your existence

An explanation for how you got here.

And as you look out on the old mountains

And valleys

And rivers

That makes you up

You feel the rising heat in the air

That’s True Americana.

Hot summers that cool your spirit

An afterglow that swells in your heart when you look at their time-puffed cheeks as they smile at you

Putting another heaping serving of peach cobbler

On your plate

Even though you said you were full.

That’s True Americana.

History balancing between the fingertips of your

Forebears

Nurturing you and pushing you forward to

today

Patriots stomp on history that was never theirs.

But history cannot be erased, not when it is engraved

In your skull

In the old peach tree

With names etched in its bark.

In the food you eat

That you swear that’s unhealthy for you as you get another spoonful of it regardless.

In the way you speak

The slight drawl in your voice 

That you’ve always been embarrassed about.

In the way you dance

How the beat just finds you and takes over you.

How you laugh

Loud and boisterous.

And cry

Filled with silent rage that has been bubbling for 400 years.

True Americana is not for patriots

But the people who could not achieve

The American Dream.