The
House
Was
Tall
And
Thin,
And
Mrs.
Slot
Let
Me
In,
A
Tiny
Lady
In
A
Lacy
Shawl.
We
Stood
In
The
Faded
Glory
Of
An
Ornate
Hall,
An
Imposing
Portrait
Of
Colonel
Lee
On
The
Wall.
“Built
Before
The
War,”
She
Replied
When
Asked,
“1853,”
And
Gave
Me
That
Glance
Southerner’s
Exchange
When
They
Meet,
Full
Of
Anger
And
Unresolved
Defeat,
“When
All
Was
As
It
Should
Be.”
She
Took
The
Check
For
Upkeep
Of
My
Antique
Family
Plot,
Which
Slot’s
Have
Done
For
Eternity,
Watching
Over
The
Deceased
Fraternity.
I felt
Myself
Sliding
Into
A
Drawl,
The
Place
Invoked
A
Thrall
Of
Timeless
Days,
Easy
Ways,
And
Blind
Eyes.
I held
Onto
My
Exiles
View,
And
Said
My
Goodbyes
To
Mrs.
Slot,
Anxious
To
Keep
What
Little
Civilization
I’ve
Got.