from sweaty dreams on twisted sheets
all bunched about his back
and ragged, stink feet.
Greet-a-day to prickle pears.
Slanting sunbars filter dust motes
down upon his raw face,
dark as the bark of an old tree root.

Wooden handed thumps the gun,
iron iced for the rough side of her tongue.
Damned red gingham girl
laid down just fine and dandy.
Now to borrow time not much.

Clomped his leather feet on bare-back boards.
He stood mini-checkered at
patchy, crooked screen porch door.
Thin eyed, wrinkle headed
squint and squat on yellow crinkle-grass.
The dust yard of a long dead dog.
Crappy clothes like refugees hung
from the knotty-knotty rope.

He sat and spat a gagging phlegm.
There ain't no sign of rain girly-girl.
Chickens in the corn, weasels on the way.
Best be gettin' on likewise. Move, y'hear.
Saying so, slaps shut the screen.

*Masquerade Online Showcase, Iss. #3; Sept/Oct/Nov 1998 *Nail’s Lunch Break E-zine; October 1998 *San Francisco Salvo; November 1998 *Kimera, A Journal Of Fine Writing, Vol. 3, Iss. #2; December 1998

© Getty & Fey.