Thoughts While Flying Home
One
steamboat’s weight worth
of cicadas’ droning
drowning out whatever
my cousin twice removed is saying. It’s not important
that the sun hangs low or
that the air is closer to a stew,
thick and bubbling with the scent
of heat. I’m numb to it,
the vibrations of countless
crystalline
wings blocking it all out
everything
block out the sun
two
times this week I sat legs
crossed
head back laughing while grilling
meat
told a tale, full of sizzle with
a spiced up plot,
our mouths drip dripping
with lust,
and our tiny plastic pitchforks
hungry in the air
three
nights straight we sat while artificial
stars on our vine hidden porch
blinked in time with
their highborn stellar kin. And all I
could do was sit and watch,
bourbon
in one hand and cigar in the
other
four
kids in a tree,
no fears, no cares
responsibilities unheard of
sap the only worry, once it
sticks
to hair or skin the only way out
is a bath.
back to the tree one day and
all we found was a stump
five
redneck hick prick bastards
hollering that the South will
rise again,
too full of cheap rotgut whiskey
to realize
the South they want, She’s not
ever coming back
She never really fell in the
first place
No, she just changed, she just
grew
into something a little less ugly,
a child after a tantrum
