April 8: If the shoe don't fit . . .

My mama used to say
"If the shoe don't fit,
pitch it." Reminds me
of an old song: "Hit the road,
Jack, and don't you come back
no mo', no mo' . . ."  Reminds me
of what could have been.
Maybe.

An' that's what I think about the future.
Ain't no past comin' after you.
Just keep goin'. You'll find that bright
fluttery rainbow some day.
Maybe.

Meanwhile, fish to fry. Good ones.
Caught them in the bayou this mornin'.
Sun rose early. Dogs a barkin' out there.
Somethin's on the move.
Maybe me.

Florida bayou (Camp 2008)

NOTE: I honestly don't know where today's post came from for Day 8 of National Poetry Month. I read prompts from Napowrimo and Robert Brewer's PAD for Writer's Digest (his was to write something about the future).

And I'm still thinking about yesterday's 'poem,' so depressing I can't forget that old sad story of betrayal. Maybe I'm in the storytelling mood as I get ready for today's writing session. Don't know. Maybe I saw yesterday's Wordless Wednesday post by Andrea Huelsenbeck of flowers, and in these days of pandemic and staying home, I wanted more. I wanted flowers too.

Instead, this 'poem' came along.  Yes, my mother truly used to say, "If the shoe doesn't fit, pitch it." She also said, "Don't let the bastards grind you down." And I loved her anyway. 

Here's Ray Charles singing as only he can, "Hit the Road, Jack."