Poke Salad Blues

Two types of folks—
Those who eat poke
And those who won’t.

A third I’ve heard of—
City dudes and princesses
Who don’t know poke from pot.

My poor parents—
“poor” is literal here,
Not a bit sentimental—

Rinsed and boiled that weed
Once—twice—three times
Purging the deep poisons

Then served it up with eggs
And crumbled bacon bits—
My dad’d whistle “Dixie.”

Me, I’d miss that meal,
Ramble down the riverbank
To where the poke patch grew,

Piss on those damned toxic weeds,
Singing something subversive,
My empty stomach drumming.