July 2004 / Volume Five / Issue Three / Online
Matt Smith
Yankee Red Hair

walks slowly into the joint,
lays her purse beside her and
sends the blood rushing to my pen.

she's married to a squirrel of a bastard,
chews on minty fresh frogs ass gum
to hide the smell of church pews and Cadillac.
please, it doesn't matter which one.

and when I can't even look at her
because I'm afraid she'll see
the movie running in the back of my head.

and when I can't sleep at night,
I just throw back the covers and let
this baby rock like a teamster.

then she plucks a piece of fuzz
from the side of my head
says, baby, your shirts on backwards.
because she cares.