These Hands

Here's a poem I wrote for you, my friends:

The Land

The son and the dad work the land.
The son ate candy off the ground.
Dirt stained their hands.

The son turned the tractor's wheels
like it was for real.
Sitting on daddy's lap
he thought it would last forever.

One evening they were sitting on the porch
when a man wearing a suit came by.
He had velvet skin and snow-white nails.

He had never touched the land.
He handed daddy some paper.
It was from the bank.

The son turned the tractor's wheels
like it was for real.
Sitting on daddy's lap
he thought it would last forever.

Momma made her son wash his hands,
but he kept a little dirt under one nail.

The son stepped on a nail.
Blood dripped on the land.
His father carried his son to the doctor…
a plaque hung on the wall.

That night, hobbling around the house,
the son hung a picture.
He placed respect on the wall.

The son turned the tractor's wheels
like it was for real.
Sitting on daddy's lap
he thought it would last forever.

They shaved his daddy's head.
They sent him off to war.
He wore shiny boots
without a speck of dirt.

The boots would see dirt
and a whole lot more
in the land across the sea.

Now the son works alone on the farm.
Every time he passes the stone
his tears water the land.

As for the man in the suit,
he never came back.
His daddy made sure of that.
He had bought a piece of paper
for family and farm.

The son turned the tractor's wheels
with his son on his lap.
He knew it wouldn't last forever.