halfway home from
that concrete-bowl arena
teeming (heaving) with
stinky-sweat-soaked rednecks
layered in sawdust and grease
a messy blackface mob
spreading spit tobacco
over their naked bones,
they sneak around
through the drafty back hallways
casually scattering
dad’s old shotgun shells
fresh cigarette ash
mamma’s whiskey labels
and let-this-be-broken pregnancy tests.
rusty dogtags clink together
sliding between camouflaged denim
mocking quick African rhythms
circular saws scream over
the echoing footfalls of
steel-toed boots padded with
suspicious glances
and my lonely power lines
are laying lazy across the
sweet, forgiven sky
honeysuckle weep
as they hug the barbed-wire
the sunset smells something like grace