(at the end of days)

After our rabbit died, there was no more hot
chocolate. No Tootsie Roll Pops. Only skimmed
barn milk and origami cats.

Alongside the Mississippi, the Yazoo still laid down
a click track, but in the fog. Her hobos coined potted
meat with boxcar songs.

Then, tongue-tied alloys began to chink the metal: lungers,
phlegm wielding troubadours, harkers, pseudo-balladeers
in clip-on patinas. There were no more real people. Only
flesh-eating zombies swapping gold lamé.

Trailer trash took to washboard causeways snipe hunting
for tighter ball hitches and looser lug nuts.

And us? We traded Tallahatchie secrets off the Yalobusha
jump bridge like reciprocating tumblebugs. And a poor
man porter’s son and cantor’s daughter—
became the best of friends