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THE CREEK BEHIND MY HOUSE
Not far from the grave
of Lee Harvey Oswald, yearless
as if some stonemason never returned from lunchbreak—
Not far from Ranger Stadium, the old GM plant
I watched them build
but now it’s empty as Chernobyl
or Kansas Main Streets during the Dust Bowl—
Not far from a theme park
named for the flags of six nations
two of which no longer exist—
Not far from all this
I sip my Lipton’s Tea
& watch the children playing,
cringing at what beer must taste like
as they sip the sour froth
of summer pesticide runoff
from a nameless creek that runs under streets
named for the trees that once grew
wild here.
Hank Threadgill was born and raised near the Fort Worth stockyards in North Texas, in a neighborhood
they used to call “Hell’s Half Acre.” A former musical instrument salesman and the son of a Southern Baptist
preacher, Hank relocated to Arlington, TX in the late 1940s, where he has slowly seen open fields turn into
parking lots. He was born in 1922, the same year as Kurt Vonnegut, Jack Kerouac, and Howard Zinn, though
he rarely esteems himself worthy of such marvelous company. His poetry has appeared sporadically over
the years in many journals that are now defunct, such as: Backboard Quarterly, Sign Waves, The Hemlock Review,
Time & Again, Gone Fishing, Glossolalia, Fail Swoop, The Vicambulist, and Zero Ducats.
Email: Hank Threadgill
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