EARLY MORNING BLOGS 284
You would not believe, would you,
That I came from good Welch stock?
That I was purer blooded than the white trash here?
And of more direct lineage than the New Englanders
And Virginians of Spoon River?
You would not believe that I had been to school
And read some books.
You saw me only as a run-down man,
With matted hair and beard
And ragged clothes.
Sometimes a man's life turns int a cancer
From being bruised and continually bruised,
And swells into a purplish mass,
Like growths on stocks of corn.
Here was I, a carpenter, mired in a bog of life
Into which I walked, thinking it was a meadow,
With a slattern for a wife, and poor Minerva, my daughter
Whom you tormented and drove to death.
So I crept, crept, like a snail through the days
Of my life.
No more do you hear my footsteps in the morning,
Resounding on the hollow sidewalk,
Going to the grocery store for a little corn meal
And a nickel's worth of bacon.
(Edgar Lee Masters)
Bom dia, na nossa Spoon River!
© José Pacheco Pereira