Thursday, September 29, 2005

Her

She reminds you of
ribtips, greens,
fried catfish,
a bucket of chicken wings,
a sweaty can of Budweiser
sitting on worn Formica,
waiting to be grabbed.
She laughs without subtlety,
and her ample hips
brook no space
as they sway unself-consciously
around ever-diminishing areas.
You look at her and think of
too long hours
at the beauty parlor,
at the nail salon,
of raucous card games around
a rickety TV table,
surrounded by chairs
with peeling seat covers.
Hers is a life too fast, too hard,
too slow, too easy,
settling for earth over air,
and you say to yourself,
‘she’d never fit in with the
cheese and wine set,’
realizing as you do
that she’s more comfortable
in her skin then you’ll ever be,
and that the ‘wine and cheese set’
have a problem with you, too.

S. Cullars, 2003