Charlie was a wild mustang,
thin as a wheat stalk,
chaw-brown teeth,
skin the leather of his ancient boots,
bought when farmin’ was good,
before they up and legalized it.
Proudly flexin’ his mullet,
now streaked with grey,
and a dull-razor beard.
Most nights found him
at Dottie’s Corrral,
a place of frugal lightin’
and cigarette smog,
with a Daisy Duke waitress
who would slap your face
if you didn’t mind your manners.
Charlie sportin’ his Walmart stetson,
nursin’ his beer into the next millennium.
Cheap Ass.
Thought he was God’s Gift,
trollin’ most nights,
tryin’ to entice a woman
to his single-wide.
Seems he could only get
bony-assed chicks
in sequined jeans,
with clickin’ dentures
and blue prison tats,
perfumed by cigarettes and sage,
lipstick red as fresh blood,
poofed hair, lookin’ all the world
like Tammy Wynette on meth.
But not so bad for
the price of a couple Schlitz.
At the trailer, the coupled
like a pair of alley dogs.
Next mornin’ she wants to cuddle
like he’s her Old Man,
but all Charlie’s thinkin’ is
about changin’ the oil in the pickup
before it’s too damn hot.
Love on the free range.
Christopher Seep is an old guy whose emotional development stalled at thirteen (according to his wife). Makes for better poetry.