Stoop Sitting and Pickin

by Nancy Sobanik

Sometimes I just need to be fed
some trailer park blues,
I’m all over spandex, faux leopard and bangles.
Bring on beaters, leathers and mullets;
your best Dean dangle with a menthol.
You strum, I’ll flutter.
Drench some sweetwater sound
with the S-string Washburn,
purse and blow a nimbus of smoke
to ring-tiara my head.
The morning’s chipped
porcelain will be piled with pots;
corn stalks wither
where slashed and stumped,
drought’s dust devil loose in the field.
This hour is Budweiser, licorice, musk.
Only the taste of a smoking blues
banjo man will press and mint
these Maybelline reds.