|Photograph by Margaret Bednar|
His daddy was the last of five generations
Born on the old family farm.
For over one hundred years
They scraped their existence
From the rich prairie soils.
The farm should have been his,
But after the drought, the fire, Mama…
Daddy just had nothing left to give
And the bank foreclosed.
Now every day he drives past
On his way to that jail cell cubicle,
His heart breaking at the sight:
Barn about to tumble to the ground,
Mama’s roses lost to the overgrown yard,
And his hands still ache
To dig through the rich prairie soils
On the farm that should have been his.