Tater Wagons in Heaven

When I was a little boy

Grandma had said that kind of thunder

Was taters rolling off the wagons in heaven.

Like memories I hear the last heavy breaths

Of a dying summer roll toward me.

A time once meant for hunting but now for books,

The heavy clap of power and authority

No longer a signal to cower under sheets.

As I slip into early adulthood

I realize the world stays the same.

It is only I who change.

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