There is a crossroad there,
but you might miss it
if you drive too fast;
you won’t miss the town
because it is no longer there.
There is shady hollow a mile or so past
at the bottom of the hill.
-An easy landmark to let you know you’ve gone too far-
This countryside is hilly and forested
with Loblolly pines,
fast growing trees that reclaim ground,
and the ground is
red Yazoo clay that is always moving.
That should tell you something,
I heard tales of gambling and roughshod characters,
when this was a destination place
or on the way to somewhere.
That was before the railroad came in two towns over
and took away its “on the way to” status,
and people left.
Eventually, you had to be from there to know.
The roadsign holds the name “Greensboro”
about eight feet high,
and an old clapboard house stands
at the intersection.
It needs paint.
Behind the house
and to the right
is a well-tended cemetery
with a new tin-roof chapel. There are no ghosts.
My people tell of a confederate general buried
-in Old Greensboro-
He must have been from there.
Taps and Ratamacues 