It takes more than good intentions to transform the South. It takes money.
What the hell is a Scalawag?
With his hair slicked back
Was falling. Slipped, had lost
His footing in Central Park
Along the gravel road encircling
The reservoir, behind the trees
Damp and full to bursting.
Lying on the ground with his face scratched,
His knuckles white and bloody
He picks himself up, cursing, and starts
Home to write a poem about falling,
About the ancient woods of wild
Virginia and what it means
To be a boy, then a man,
Calling out into the darkness
Waiting for a reply.