Oklahoma City Turns 125

On the precipice of admit
you were almost a wasteland
except for this
one day- years from now- I will spin a poem
about your taste
the grit that still resides in my lip
you yelled into my silence
cursed my solitude
it was an ache in you to build empires
in the middle of nowhere
There are too many thoughts to think
it's easier to compose
a soliloquy about a rusted wheelbarrow
then to say
I hear you.
I am afraid of the echo
trapped in the cavern of your hate
on Okc's 125th year of stealing land back
that had been given away,
I think of the settlers
there's a reason they settled
it is not a word we use
for a scissortail building a nest
a redbud slicing red dirt for a root-flow
It's knowing that better may never come
feeling the work call to your bones
much must be done
you, to me, will always be
That one.