Southern Fried Weirdness

By Berrien C. Henderson

In this once-inhabited two acres,
The rosebushes go unnoticed yearlong
Until they bloom--even the still-red barn
(Fine candidate for someone’s black-and-white
Photojournal of rustic miscellany)
Is more ghost than guard to the property.
 
Good for parking tractor trailers, the plot
Goes unsold by the old man while others
Find surreptitious use in its late-night,
Dewy grass. Their startled, ambient eyes
A passing concern like cutting high beams
From cars turning down forgotten night roads.

Berrien C. Henderson lives with his family in southeast Georgia.  He was born in a small town and currently lives in a farming community; deer and turkey have been known to wander through his yard.  A small cadre of common house Geckoes earn their keep by eating the bugs on the carport and front porch.  Both Berry and his wife teach--high school English and sixth grade English, respectively.  He has a son and daughter, and they both answer to Thing 1 and Thing 2.  Ever elusive free time he spends with family, and late in the evening or late at night, writing speculative fiction and poetry.

Copyright © 2009, Berrien C. Henderson