She
curves with feline grace and evokes
pangs
of painful passion so powerful
the
boys don't see her face and bushy hair
on
steamy dark nights on lonely roads back seat, front seat,
it's
always the same, and some come back, steadies;
but
no parties, ever, no bright lights, no people gaily dressed,
no
wedding receptions with tossed bouquets and white garters,
no
church pot luck dinners or a cousin's backyard barbeque;
but
sometimes in the shadowed huddles of a crowded bar,
the
swill and smell of spilled beer in the back corner,
on
a date, she lets them touch her, sometimes more than one,
she
lets them; her father told her she took after her aunt,
his
ugly sister, right before he left forever, her mother
told
her makeup might help and low cut dresses, short skirts;
but
the boys like her in the swirling maelstrom of lights,
in
the far corner on the small stage she dances,
and
sometimes she lets them touch her, and the pills help,
and
she prays her baby girl will be pretty.
Robert
L. Vogel
Knoxville,
2014
