POEM

She can cut a rug right down

its spine. She’s wine for days

and days turn into nighttime

faster than a swine to milk.

She’s not silk or roses, not that

hightime ilk of china saucers

and the cups they keep intact.

Her shoes are blues & blacks,

her hair is factual and brown

& frowns when wet. Who says

she won’t dance until the cows

get out? She says. She’s the one

who cooks the books, dehorns

the calves, dethorns the roses,

disabuses the boys of the notion

she’ll deflower them. After hours

her lights are low, her spirits high,

she’s double-wide, three-ply belting

out her own darn lyrics to the sky.