Last Stand

Daisies poke through the broken asphalt, rage against their dying.

Great-Grandpa Hamp’s farm tumbled down and drowned in the sadness of Georgia red clay.

Two centuries later, developers desecrated the land and built a mixed-use development (that nobody needed) there.

Me, a lone descendant, stand, and from the edge of the road throw stones at the realization that nobody thought to find me, that nobody thought. . .anyone would care.

At the corner of a cotton field I feel like a cliché of a prodigal child.

Came back way too late to take a stand.

Jenny W. Andrews copyright 2022