JACK B. BEDELL
Former Editor-in-Chief of Argus, 1987
Poet Laureate of Louisiana
“Nobody ever listens,” he said to himself
Knowing that the only ears to perk up
Whenever he made a noise
Were in the cornfield behind the porch
Where he spend his twenty-four hour days
Kicking the pot-licking hound between his legs,
Telling it to make something of its time
Before the wrinkles on its forehead
Covered up its eyes,
Asking it if it remembered
Many moons ago
When it could run down a rabbit
Until the sun went away
and still have the strength
To sire a litter, or two,
And remembering himself.
