Field Hand
Priscilla cooks a hearty dinner...
The rain washes the windowpanes...
Now Mr. Jack eats like a winner...
Propped on an elbow, Priscilla feigns...
Behind a coffee cup she snickers...
What pretty dimples will never show...
A shroud of shade hangs in the kitchen...
Her doting husband snags his coat...
Ambitious landowner now calling...
His slaves are ousted from his fields...
Where did Mr. Jack's pretty new wife go?...
His prickly callous heart now reels...
Lo, a lamp hung in the distance!...
Where Jim, the Farmer's favorite stud,
Resides inside with his prized banjo...
Wood shack is slathered; ensconced with mud...
Jack marches out there on a hunch...
Inhaling every danger sign...
The matching set of fresh footprints...
His wife and Jim's make a bee-line...
He sneaks around this hut, and that...
Rotting relics stand for his neglect
For human nature and compassion...
At last arriving at his suspect...
Red fabric blocking out all windows;
The Boss can hear her moan and gasp...
The ugly music of bad bedsprings...
Have Jack embedded in his tracks...
Mr. Jack peers through a slither...
The door is propped an eighth an inch...
Jim Bo has both her legs spread high...
He's driving home his fever pitch!...
Jim's making his long point well known...
Flushed Priscilla has veiled both eyes...
There's cards spread out upon a table...
She's wincing as Jim slaps her thigh...
Jack stumbles back out the door backwards!...
He can't unsee Jim's every thrust...
He's off upon a ticked mad dash....
It's murder or he'll have to bust!...
At home in his messed room of horrors
Each time he blinks he's seeing red
Mr. Jack's gun's up and gone missing...
Gloms can of gas out from his shed...
Spilling some gas upon his boards,
Now Mr. Jack pops off a cork...
He guzzles down some Moonshine quick...
The twilight leaking in with force...
Though filthy with his shame and rancor,
Jack sets at counter for a spell,
And contemplates his roaring anger...
He's without compass drowned in his well...
He stares at pans that hang above him...
He looks down at his quaking hands...
Mr. Jack's whip's hung up in the corner...
For many years blacks drove his land...
He wonders if they all despise him...
These slaves that Mr. Jack assumed
Were dumb as rocks, and made for labor...
Inside his skull they shared no room...
...No, not until this ruined moment...
Mr. Jack lingers, deep in thought...
He feels a bulge inside his jacket...
A half smoked stogie long forgot...
He lights it's tip; discards the match
With little caution on the floor...
His ornate house erupts in a wall of flames!...
In vain Jack searches for an unblocked door...
Back at Jim's shack, the lover's pause
Their limbs entwined give off a playful scent...
A look of concern creases Jim's brow...
A gruesome scream slipped through his vent...
Priscilla and Jim stand out upon the porch
Watching the white hot flames erupt
Where once the Bossman's house had stood...
Mr. Jack's storybook's now shut...
Jim drags a hand down 'cross his face,
And stumbles in to get his hootch...
Thinks now the farmland goes to the slaves,
Least until a new Boss comes home to roost...
4/2/24
Bunny Villaire