America from the bottom up:Two Poems from the daddy

Today, the daddy is feeling America from the perspective of the "least of these." In this case, it's a hardworking African American who, after years of work under southern apartheid, manipulation, intimidation and humiliation, has lost much of his spirit. The other is a veteran who, after losing his family farm, is riding the rails. But he still has some pride and "a dream or two."

Patriot Joe
by Mac Walton, aka, MacDaddy

Ole Joe flagwaves.
He chomps down apple pie
They strung him out to dry.
Ole Joe.

He’s all for bootstrappin.
He strives all day long.
They bought Joe.
They stole Joe’s song.

Who’s Joe?
Lincoln’s pride and joy,
John K’s rung to fame,
Nixon’s checker game,
Reagan’s union of shame.
How’s Joe?
Joe flagwaves. Never sings.

Ole Joe flagwaves.
He’s a good ole boy.
He looks black.
He dreams white.

They lynch Joe each dark night.

Homeless Joe
by Mac Walton, aka, MacDaddy

Now,
I ain’t saying some dry gloves
Wouldn't keep these old bones warm.
This pair is a might damp.
My fingers are a tad numb.

Now,
I ain’t saying I’ve fallen on hard times since Nam,
since we lost the family farm when recession came and stuck.
They say a room in a project would be a step up. But to me,
It still feels like I'm out of luck.

Guess
I’m searching, like everybody else, for a reason to
jump for good these crying trains screeching, this
Miss-my-farm sadness below train tracks endless, cold
boxcars trembling past damp cardboards darkened beneath the bridges.

Guess
I’m needing the same as some city folk: a
warm coat around my shoulders, a pair of cotton gloves around my fingers, and
a gal or fellow who believes this sometimes drunken beggar can still
be a man, this Ames Iowa Farmer doing the best he can.

Guess
I’m hoping you’ll look past these wet, dirty rags, Muddied boots from Goodwill
to an old farmer with dim-lit eyes but still a dream or two.

Guess
I’m asking: If one of us is homeless,
how about you?