One A. M. southeast of Tulsa,
sprawled on the floor
three children snore
as this tin can waits
for the swirl aloft
to descend.
I guess it all depends...
My eyes stay glued to the T. V. set,
just another night of sweat
in Oklahoma,
but I'm not O. K. with betting
that this passes over, like in Exodus,
leaving us unleavened.
I imagine us being lifted,
angel-wings gifted,
joining Dorothy where rainbows end,
somewhere east in Misery.
But I go to bed,
turn the T. V. off,
dare not wake the sleeping dead.
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