Iota

in my little town with the little name
tucked in the ankle bone of Louisiana
rice fields are rich with mud and lome
and sweat fallen from Dad's bandana

in star-drowned nights full of bullfrog song
screened windows open, fan on draw
sleep comes easy to boys dreaming
of coming May and crawfish claw

faith stacked high like summer bales
churches full each Saturday and Sunday
purpose no secret here, strong as black coffee
no one shy to offer hallelujah when they pray

then there's he who's moved on
to cities with big names and reputations
who lies awake beneath whirling ceiling fan
his mind filled with ruminations

of a tiny town with a tiny name
tucked in the ankle bone of Louisiana
as home sick tears appear on his cheeks
that he wipes with Dad's faded bandana