he gives the two fingered salute to every 1975 chevy or
white cummins with a ballcap behind the wheel,
shops every place he in and says howdy to women he don't know
can see him tapping nervous fingers while we in line 'cause all these
people make him anxious, he look just like a buck through a scope,
bristling with caution--
we're passing through penrose the back way, (an' every ways the back way) grinding up dirt roads curvier than the pipes my daddy used to snake with Tom. T. Hall preachin and
he's stopping on highway exits, putting his lips to mine before I realize
Hank Williams was kissing me and Roger too--
breathing in that dry groan, a voice that'd be thick as
molasses if you could picture it and just as dark, slowly
rollin' over the steering wheel and swimmin' up onto the
dashboard the way steam curls around thin air,
not as warm, though he hit you like the sun does in the winter--
gotta stand still and feel it,--
but we're still in his truck, his headlights
washing out across the barren trees and barbed fences
and the skies are these nice stretches of mixed paint,
black and indigo speckled with impending snow or
maybe saturday,
all the while he keeps sayin' what? every time he
catches me lookin' and all i can do is smile till he kisses
me again, him and Johnny, Corb and Evan.
(C) Brooke Otto 2016.