Skip to main content
Poor old Abner, poor old white-haired nigger!
I remember when you were so strong
you hung yourself by a rope round the neck
in Doc Hollister's barn to prove you could beat
the faker in the circus — and it didn't kill you.
Now your face is in your hands, and your elbows
are on your knees, and you are silent and broken.
Rate this poem
No votes yet
Reviews
No reviews yet.