A red pick-up truck rolled on a dirt road spitting out corn seeds
while wheat was dying in the hot Kansas air.
Down the road was a scarecrow swaying in the breeze
with its face slashed by sun rays.
The outside of a depressed farmhouse peeled red paint, and
the damp wooden steps were followed by a dreary kitchen,
stockpiling mountains of food.
Campbell's Soup cans were stacked
covering the bottom half of a baby blue refrigerator.
Old orange pill bottles lined up against the cracked windowsill.
In the living room, my great uncle Bobby sat on his throne
of expired soup cans and unpaid bills.
A rotting tank top stretched tightly
around his massive beer belly,
while his white chest hair curled through the seams.
He liked to complain about the floral paper
occupying his bedroom walls.
A radio blared last night’s football highlights and Fourth of July advertisements.
took a sip of his whiskey flavored coffee.
When I asked him about what brought him to Kansas,
he responded with his coarse voice,
“The American Dream.”