Sharecropper

I don’t know the heat of days
Plowing dirt and growing dust.
I can’t feel the light-headed fear
Of not growing what I must.

I’ve never strapped my body

To a worthless, tired mule
And tried to break the ground
With only beans for fuel.

Arkansas escapes my memory

But I feel it in my hands.
Hands that folded in cotton prayers
Then watched the empty land.

My eyes never stared at tin roofs

Awake the whole night long
Then crawled out from my bed
At the mourning dove’s song,

My gut never knew the fear

Of leaving my job undone
Of never doing what was needed
Before the setting sun.

I’ve never been a sharecropper

But their blood runs through my veins.
So I guess I have no idea
Or any reason to complain.