Diaspora

Thousands of raw acres
of prime South Texas land.
Mesquite, minimal water,
Fossils, fences and sand.

It’s a place to raise cattle,
With horsepower and sweat.
You can become wealthy,
It’s just not how to bet.

From the thousands of acres
Generations sliced off their share.
One ranch became ranches,
But nobody seemed to care.

The pastures were a man’s world,
There were no girls allowed.
There were many disappointments,
Some best not said out loud.

When I first visited the ranch,
It stretched as far as I could see.
Someone said, “That’s nothin’, son”.
“This used to reach to Uvalde.”

One by one, they moved to town,
It’s where they all belonged.
This could have been the King Ranch,
If they could have got along.

Sunday

Sunday is a day for family.
Time to spend together, chilling.
This is why God invented wine.
It’s to help prevent the killing.

It’s a time to recall old stories.
Reenact them with force.
Reopen some old wounds.
Then, the pasta course.

I’m not sure the term for
A loud, three-way argument.
There’s the same mutual respect
As in the Houses of Parliament.

There’s lots of good food,
So many emotions to tap.
After eating and discussing,
There may be time for a nap.

Sleep with one eye open.
Just sayin’.

We ate dinner at a “family style” restaurant.
This is an interesting concept.
I’m not sure who invented it.

To their marketing team, it means
You have platters of food and you serve yourself.

To someone who married an Italian, it means
You have a loud discussion between courses,
And a fight over dessert.

Oops.

We’ve been asked to find another restaurant.
I guess I shouldn’t have told the waitress
She was dressed like a slut.