Slingshot Prophecies

Slingshot Prophecies 2048 1621 John Davis Jr.

The stretch and launch of untargeted pennies
               planted our land in bronze. Pinching leather over
               Lincoln, we pulled hard as our elastic muscles allowed.
               Stray cents dinged a neighbor’s tractor, a shed’s tin roof.

After whirring copper blurred through cloud-ripped denim skies,
               we never knew: Heads or tails? Sand wouldn’t render decisions
               for aimless, thriftless boys who shot for the gleam, for the humming
               curve – trajectories bent by farm wind and country fate.

When mason-jar change ran out, we tried our fathers’ beer caps.
               Their teeth chewed the air, whistled dissonance like Saturday
               cat calls followed by a Sunday church organ:
               …my treasures are laid up/ somewhere beyond the blue…

A thousand rains later, the circles emerged: Green discs
               of In-God-We-Trust money and razor-lipped reminders
               of drunken dads. Each offered again their weathered choices
               to older boys who’d once spun away from this soil.

Header photograph by K Weber.

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