Pink Flannel Nighty

Deep in the night she sits
on a front porch rocker
wears a pink flannel gown
sips wild turkey
from a shot glass tumbler
protects her land
with a shotgun across her lap
gazes at her dooryard fire.

Her steel-toe boots walked HVAC mezzanines
with hard hat men, her small hands
shoveled stone from trucks
as good as anyone.

She worked for her supper
of channel catfish and witch’s butter.

She knows the lay, the play of the forest,
its medicinal and poison powers by ear,
romps barefoot on moonlit paths
carved from thicket,
bathes with coyotes 
in ocher creeks bubbling hot.

She carries a private lineage,
a holy man’s steadiness,
the soul ache of a song,
defends her right to love.

Let no one squander the world from her
as the night gets cold.

Come sit by her fire, share a sip,
admire the wild watchful stars.

Wyntrebrooke Apartments

White globes on poles like earthbound moons. Dark wood on stucco. An astroturfed balcony—red jewels of vinca, silver chains of lilac petunia. Two cannabis plants peek-a-booing from terracotta pots. A coral tea rose smiles at her caretaker through the August rain. Gray velvet air eases through the glass slider, left ajar, enough for her to breathe. Mudslide Slim spins in the young couple’s bedroom. (He’s safe. He’s kind.) She strikes a match, lights the white candle nestled in the wine bottle on the porcelain vanity. Dusty garden clothes pile on the floor. Behind the splatter of zebras and palm leaves on plastic, the shower runs warm, her workday flowing down the drain to Long Ago and Far Away. She slips between the worlds of what might have been and what has come to pass, holding onto who she could’ve been. Love flows sweet, soft as rain behind strange, thick wooden doors. A skylight casts golden light, hinting at a future life. All is well—infinitely—for a moment. The feeling lingers like perfume fading, more real than a dream loosening its grasp.