I grew up a hick.

I didn’t know it until several years later,

But who other than hicks

Have built up calluses on the bottoms of their feet

So thick that they don’t need to wear shoes

On gravel driveways?

My brother used to join me outside.

The ancient rusted bench-swing,

Kudzu swallowing its frame,

Was where we learned to cuss.

We always peered over our shoulders

Before we’d whisper a profanity.

We’d giggle with false innocence—

It made our tongues tingle.

For fun, we used to throw gravel,

Or shoot our ancient Red Ryder BB gun

At piles of ash collecting by the burn barrels in the yard,

Every so often hearing the soft ping

Of a BB reflected by those rusted metal cans.

If we were lucky, we’d spot a rat

And end our evening with a hunt.

But my favorite place of all our 20 acres to perch myself

Was atop the pile of railroad ties

Next to our enormous stone fire ring.

The blocks of stinking, soggy, splintering wood

Always stained my hands,

And I could never get away—

No matter how slyly I sat at the table—

With skipping the sink before dinner.

The place sold in February,

While I was away at school.

I went back to see it

While the proud new owners were away—

They had adopted our leaving the gate open.

The grass had overgrown the fences,

The railroad tie mountain had crumbled,

But our kudzu bench-swing remained.

I sat down and scanned the yard for rats,

Preparing to end one last evening with a hunt.