rel="nofollow" href="#u3dc3927b-17fa-5875-bf56-5288f8140025">Oiled by Sunshine
Pisgah
1
I’ve always lived in sight of Pisgah’s crown,
Ten or twelve crowback miles from Pole Creek,
The peak a steadfast anchor for my soul.
Twixt here and there green folds of South Hominy’s
Story feel like old friends shadowed by the mountain.
It’s stout, worthy, tall by more’n a mile.
The rock face halfway up they call the bride and groom,
Who after deep snow look pleased as punch to marry.
Two peaks to its left a rat sneaks up the ridge.
A rub-lamped genie could conjure up no better sight
To greet an old man’s eyes at one more weary dawn.
2
Mister Vanderbilt used to own it. Or at least had a deed,
As if a mere man, even a tycoon, could own such godly land.
Built Buck Spring Lodge, where blueblood guests
Killed deer and bear and buffalo and made their servants
Cook and serve it. I peeked in there as a young’un,
You could set a T-model Ford in the fireplace,
And a bearskin rug looked fit to eat you alive.
Did I say buffalo? Around here? Well, Papa told it,
How Mister Vanderbilt ordered half a dozen,
Male and female, three of each from way out west,
For he thought money cured all ills, even buffalo drought.
I was at Hominy station when them things come off the train.
Big old wooden crates a-snorting and a-grunting and a-growling
Like something inside itched to kill something outside.
Us
