Poem: Them Heavy People

Tipi Degre

Forgive me father
Each word comes as a falter
I know not what I became before
I grow blossomy
A sort of fitful sugar tree.
These branches, softer spoken
Mannerisms; long lasting Parkinsonian
I have my eyes on the horse.
I care not for the carriage-
The driver clenches his teeth,
A man machine.