Apr 14, 2008

Cash at Folsom

Written by Seth Abramson

Read by Leon Stokesbury

I don’t trust you if you haven’t gone to Folsom
when the corn is high
and the place has been eleven years without paint—
except that one line they’re going to shoot you
if you cross—

and I don’t trust you if you haven’t crossed it
at least one time, and I don’t trust you if you
haven’t stood in front of strangers to talk around
another man’s sin, to bake the cake he baked
with his father in a slum in ’63 which fell and fell
and he’s been falling ever since—

I don’t trust you if you leave boys in the middle
of their trials—
and I don’t trust you if you haven’t wanted to
save someone, just once, if you haven’t spoken to
men living where the light is always on
and you can’t turn it off, and so it goes, first—
I don’t trust you if you haven’t gone to that place,
and I don’t trust you if you have.

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