I thought we were going backwards, but
all I saw were the niggers being black.
And then the bridge vanished.
I was looking right at it; I could see
the clear gap
between the war and the waste
and I held my ground, groveling.
Ringo and me drowned out the horses,
pulled the wagon ashore the left bank
by the fires hel dim - but bright - by the
yelling faces blackened with ash and fury.
I saw the wagon wet and above my bed.
Granny stood up, but by now I can call her
Mavis. She was ready to roll and had one
too many southerns and sevens. My shoulders
still smelt of burnt wood. And Atlanta. I sent Ringo
the receipt, and he apparently paid it, with a note:
"I don't hate her, but I bet you've heard that one before"
