by Ethel Mortenson Davis
Our brothers
saw under bridges,
saw alleys
off Main Street,
saw back rooms
behind bars,
and knew about
the old man up the road.
We, as daughters,
were put under bushel baskets
like the new fragile plants
you set out and cover up,
protecting them from freezing nights.
We didn’t see
the people living in crates
under the bridges,
the beatings and stabbings
in the alleys off Main Street
in our small town,
the women used
in back rooms behind the bars,
and
the wife of the old man up the road
who went on a trip,
but never returned home.
fourwindowspress 
So many sad stories adding to the overall.
Reblogged this on Becoming is Superior to Being.
Absolutely amazing poem
Standing Feather
On Fri, May 10, 2019 at 6:20 AM fourwindowspress wrote:
> Thomas Davis posted: “by Ethel Mortenson Davis Our brothers saw under > bridges, saw alleys off Main Street, saw back rooms behind bars, and knew > about the old man up the road. We, as daughters, were put under bushel > baskets like the new fragile plants you set out and cover up” >