Country Music
an online journal of poetry
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Rob MacDonald



I thought I'd take a drive through my hometown—I hadn't been back in years. When I stopped in the elementary school parking lot, my old friends were all there, revving their engines and throwing empty cans of energy drink out their windows. They were yelling at one another, threatening to start up a game of four square. I sped off before anyone could notice how responsible I'd gotten. In the woods behind our old house, I found the skin I grew up in. The birch trees purred as I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my jeans to my knees. I stepped into the forgiving mud and forgot everything.


Rob MacDonald responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.