Country music

When in our purest form
we sang the songs of rain to a hard blessed sky,
and what poured down was our predestined selves
compelling us to praise, to drown, or swim, or else.

Oh, there were hours of song and of prophesied drink,
and the vessels of my heart grew weary of such things.

What dog barks at a well-off man, he asked.
I did not live
among the poorest of the poor to give ye comfort.
I brought ye here to earn a wage
from a rich man who would despise ye.

For He gave us Classic Rockabilly on a clobbered portable radio
when we had no chance but to climb the razor fences
and drag our punctured bellies across the stretched quilts of our mothers,
stitched together with the stripped threads of all they owned.

Yea, the fowl will stand beside the sated dogs, between the children
and the irreproachable young men who wore the mark of
Yeezus on their T-shirts,
their blood still dripping from their well-accomplished hands.
They will watch us with care and they will covet each of the moments
we stand without handcuffs.

Oh, there were hours of song, hours of watered down prayers,
and the vessels of my heart grew weary,
my heart grew weary.

***

My father sat with me to watch Hee-Haw on Saturday nights,
I think he thought I would want to learn the ways of the fiddle
or at least appreciate Roy Clark’s excellent banjo playing.
Instead I learned the violent prose of Labatt 50 ale and Player’s tobacco
in the same room.

He taught me to be hungry with my hands.

Supper was served at 7 p.m. sharp
on fold-up tin TV trays with milk glass rust stains,
and the main course was a bowl of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli
and buttered sliced bread,
and dessert was a tin of fruit cocktail
(with only one cherry, maybe) served in a Dixie cup.
We sat in front of the television screen,
our sock feet folded in front of us,
and a dish towel to cover our shirts,
and we listened to Buck and Roy
and I wondered why
the women who walked by the front door on their way to Bingo or Bridge
or to movies at the downtown theater,
all wore pink or blue nylon scarves
over their hair,
and why they all looked like Jackie Onassis
on their way to an important soiree,
and wore the same perfume my mother preferred
before she left

and then Minnie Pearl would say something outrageous and I forgot the loneliness
until another lady walked past the doorway and I wondered if
she could see the holes in my socks
or notice that my father was reaching for another beer.

Published by

Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

8 thoughts on “Country music”

  1. A portion of the beauty of your work lies in those details that utterly capture a moment in time and expand them to encompass so much more. Loved this poem, Steven, and it felt so familiar to me. I ate that fruit cocktail too, with the one cherry if you were lucky, and the tv tray, while watching Hee Haw.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. There is something new about this piece. In the second part, there is your familiar (and much admired) ability to describe a scene and what it feels like. The first part is more cryptic or surreal (?), and I loved how you used words there. A great read again, Steven.

    Liked by 1 person

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