This uneasy peace, how does it work?
The answer's obvious:  law enforcement
Everywhere to let the Cajuns laissez les
Bon temps rouler.  The masters, suited,
Make their money.  Crackers work the oil
Rigs, but, underneath and all around,
A dark and silent ocean cleans the motel
Rooms and serves up plates of boudin,
Crawfish etouffee.  They ride their bikes
And take the buses, walk, and talk among
Themselves, but, to the ones who float
Above them, they say only “sir” and “ma'am,”
And frequently excuse themselves, and, by
Such means, they help to keep this odd,
Uneasy peace.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 27 times
Written on 2022-05-04 at 16:01

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