Sugar daddies that leave for work before dawn,
And show up again after dark to eat fingerling potatoes
In front of a muted TV. Wives sleep on silk pillows,
Bare shoulders tan from doubles matches on clay courts.
I’m from a neighborhood of white picket fences now dingy,
Black shutters that hide clenched veneers
And the occasional cracked ceramic serving bowl.
I’m from a city shunned for its lack of culture and excess of chain restaurants.
Cracker Barrel off of every exit,
Count the Confederate flags fluttering off the front antennas
Of F150s in the parking lot.
The Land of Biscuits and Gravy,
Where alligators sun themselves in the backyard
And subtle injustices feel like the sand on the car floor mat,
Felt only by those with bare feet.