Member Poem

I got the Call on the rotary phone in the Kitchen―
mama was ―Taking― a nap after working late
I heard our neighbor, wilean-
cryin’ on the Line

I was scared, so I focused on the Long, curly telephone cord that allowed ―us
to walk clear across the kitchen and stay on the line
I noticed the wallpaper looked Dingy
I was little ―wilean was Squalin’.

wilean liked to Drink―wilean Drank, a lot
wilean’s son was slow and he loved pickles
wilean said “tell your mama that Elvis is Dead! The King is Dead!”
Mama saw Elvis when she was 14, and Many times― Thereafter.

she wouldn’t see him Again, Though
we Wouldn’t see wilean for much longer, either.
she met a Shotgun in her ―bedroom
―Her Boy Died, too.

I think about wilean―Still And her ―Boy
Her Boy stole my mama’s pickles that she put up
(Put up is southern for canning)
He stole ―mama’s pickles because they were delicious

I think about wilean’s blonde hair that was Jacked up to Jesus
her hair got Fucked Up ―when she met a shotgun in Her Bedroom―
Next door to my House
Her Boy took a nap on the bed―He never woke up

I used to check on Wilean’s sister,
Flornell―but she is Dead now, too.
There is a “sad streak” that runs through some of the best people
The best cooks, The kindest―most generous― Folks,

They make a beautiful home―like Wilean  Did, And then they die in them.
They are all gone now,―wilean, her Boy, flornell, pearl, mom ramsey.
They are with the real King now.
There is a―Sad Streak―that Runs through the best Folks.