Sweet Panhandle Pie

by J. R. Salling

 

In late summer our rented sweat box evicts us.
We stick like wax to our rocking chairs
and watch the road what brought us
while the sands invade every crevice
on the back of the wind.

Our jaws slackened and eyelids heavy,
we are startled by the screen door
forever squeaking and slamming,
which mosquitoes perfectly time.

Some of us try to translate secrets told by tall grasses
or twitch our noses at the fumes
from a simmering bucket of sea shells.

One night we mock the neighbor's wail
when the little one stabs him with a garden spike.
"Control that monster," he insists.
"Go bleed in your own yard, yankee," we reply.
Granny makes us feel better with ice cream and pie.
Sweet Panhandle Pie.

© 2006 J. R. Salling