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.