It's blood, and generals who were the cause,
Shadows we study for school. In Nashville, lines
Of a Civil War battle are marked, our heroes
The losers. Map clutched in one fist, my bike
Wobbling, I've traced assaults and retreats,
Horns blowing when I stopped. The South's hurried
And richer now; its ranch-house Taras display
Gilt-framed ancestors and silver hidden
When the Yankees came, or bought at garage sales.
History is bunk. But who'd refute that woman
Last night, sashaying toward the bar's exit
In cowboy boots to drawl her proclamation?—
"You can write your own epitaph, baby,
I'm outta here—comprendo?—I'm history."
Diann Blakely's website is here.
Her books are available at Amazon and other outlets.