I am of Kentucky,
suburban-raised,
Tudor-style down the street

from Starbucks and Panera,
far from hollers and
gravel roads to algae-capped

ponds where bullfrogs croak
away on summer evenings
like they believe there’s no tomorrow.

Ashamed to say 
so little do I know about coal
or the harvest of tobacco,

but I can attest to
the river that flows
past my city,

the seam it cuts
through the valley,
its cold, black heart

when flooding,
yet most days lazing
the color of cured leaf,

and sometimes,
it seems out of vinegar 
and spite,

that of the weak whiskey
they make down
in Tennessee.