To Samuel Hawkins (ca 1830 – 1872)

I, Samuel, son of no one deemed
man enough to feature in your books,
factored more than met the eye. 

Hemp weighing at the waist, 
I stepped back,              from the wheel
spinning,     mechanics of a paradise      lost to its winders.

Behold my raven, mother to an unkindness,
so readily dispersed at the altar
where gentlemen commerce and lust.

Now          forsaken by workers bailing,
you lament at the shocks,
rotting past their dew.

Thirsty rakes broke free
slivers of fibers, weaving
their yearns into strands anew.

My work is done. Forgive-Me-Knots
are blooming in the land
of the thoroughly bred.

You pick the tree to exhibit
my bleeding body. Defiant to the last drop,
I remain your master roper.

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