Can Barely Hear My Mom Calling

Sometimes when it's real quiet, when I can just barely

hear the soft whining strains

of the harmonica coming over my

car radio late at night out

here alone on the Interstate, I

think back to those clod-dirt roads

in Oklahoma where I was young

and trailed the stale tracks left by

humpbacked jack rabbits and such.

Then, when the wind is just right, I

think I can just barely hear my

mom calling saying ``It's suppertime,

son, come wash your hands,'' and

the whirr-whirring of the ceiling fans.

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