Formed from fistfulls of fertile North American soil, The Garden Clots travel collaboratively across genres, borders, beliefs, and political perspectives.
Walking thru the dark on our way home
On the bend where the river meets the road
People gathered ‘round, headlights pointing down
Lighting up the river below.
When our boots stopped crunching on the snow
We saw the open waterblack and cold
Men with heavy coats, in a summer fishing boat
Reaching under ice with a pole.
Jimmy B. was there
His mom looked so scared
His dad was all red from iron ore dust
Like a man made of rust.
A murmur in the crowd was barely heard
Like no one spoke a single word
The guy in the bow whispered: “Steady, now.”
As they eased Jimmy’s brother thru the current
His Dad raised his arms and froze
His Mom slumped against his mining clothes
Jimmy’s teary eyes (and) Jimmy’s runny nose
Buried in his mother’s coat
It was fairly late when we got home
And Mom was sitting by the phone
We didn’t need to hear (what) Dad whispered in her ear
Mom said: “Your supper’s on the stove.”
Mom said: “Your supper’s on the stove.”
