COTTON'S RUINS

Today I passed a cotton gin
at a crossroads far from town
wearing a metal hide of rusty tin
and sagging sheds near fallen down.

So I pulled just off the road
and took in the surrounding land
of scattered recent hobby farms
and an aging farm house, grand.

In mind's eye I subtracted years
removed pastures and tall pine trees
until gin and farm house stood alone
and cotton poison tainted the breeze.

Now all around was linen white.
Cotton trailers lined up at the gin
as their owners laughed and joked.
I heard the old gears grind within.

Though at the time I was a child
I recall the end of those old days
before present cold corporate farms
and their sterile soulless ways.

I sighed, cranked up, I had to go
for I had miles left yet to ride
still, I thought about the culture lost
when the days of ol' King Cotton died.