IS IT REAL?

......
Where did it go.....this world of mine
Lost now in clouded memories.
Lost with all the belov'ds who also knew.
It seemed so real.
.....
Real as frost-ripped bottom
Bared to "out-of-doors"
And buckets dipped in icy well
Dripping to kitchen
Rosy warm with iron stove, and
Mama stirrin' grits and hog back.
....
Real as draggin' babe on pickin' sack
Between the cotton rows,
Or blessed nights before the fire
Papa readin' from "The Book"
Or mama pumpin' up the organ;
A dozen voices...more and less...
Sweetly singin' young'uns off to sleep.
.....
I sit before the raucous sounds of TV
Watching "Patriots" hitting "Scuds"
Raining death upon the earth.
The room too hot...furnace much too high;
Don't know how to turn it off.
Aching weary bones grateful for
The indoor plumbing
And the sound of TV voices,
Though they don't relate to me.
.....
How subtly were we wooed
Into a new reality.......or is this real?
Am I?
There's no one left to tell me:
Was it...is it...am I...is there real?
....
From Life's A Bitch by GeoE
....
For Fronie Skaggs, a living Grant Wood painting, born 11/30/1904, one of 12 children; fading, though not always gently, from a lost past through a present confusing even to those born to it, with a patient acceptance born of "you live because you are alive." 2/19/1991
....