Begun under the bed of the poorest shanty It ran through the mattress and suffered the chinches And it ran through the veins of the farmer and his wife It came fraying the laces of his brogans Like the plow of a furrow's sweep Turning the land and busting the clod-chunks But the Grin was too broad It was too thin And the throngs pushed and stomped to get a glance Before it disappeared and climbed aboard dawn's rose
From Possum by Shelby Stephenson, published by Bright Hill Press. Copyright © 2004 by Shelby Stephenson. Reprinted by permission of Bright Hill Press. All rights reserved.