12-04-2013, 11:58 AM
Thanks to each of you who have read this and made comments. I have incorporated many of your suggestions. Appreciate it.
Whiskey Memories
As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, rolled their eyes,
knowing she could never find a man.
But now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
and working at the Side Track Grill,
her made-up eyes smoky, piercing,
hips, grandma says, made for birthing.
Boys act the fool around her,
they flirt with her in school,
dreaming of her legs around their waists,
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.
Even the grown men after work
watch the way she flips her hair,
the way she laughs and then shoots anger
from her eyes when she sees them staring.
They wearily down a scotch or two,
before taking the back road home -
home to memories of dark-eyed girls,
of rolling hips and smoky laughter;
home to dreams of success,
home to wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can give.
Side Track Grill
As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, rolled their eyes,
knowing she could never find a man.
Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill
Her made-up eyes are smokey, piercing,
Her hips, grandma said, made for birthing.
Boys act the fool around her,
in sleeveless shirts they work the fields
dreaming of her legs around their waists,
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.
Even the grown men after work
watch the way she flips
her hair just so, the way she laughs
and then shoots anger out her eyes
when she sees them staring.
They wearily down a scotch or two,
before taking the back road home -
home to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
of rolling hips and smoky laughter;
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can give.
Side Track Grill
As a child she was fat like her mother,
her arms and legs tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, carrying tales,
knowing she could never find a man.
But now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
and working at the Side Track Grill
Her made-up eyes are dark and smoky,
a woman now, with grown up demands.
The boys act foolish around her,
with spotted chins and worries heavy,
dreaming of her legs around their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.
Even grown men after work,
watch her flip her long black hair,
the way she laughs and then shoots anger
out her eyes when she sees them stare.
They wearily down a scotch or two,
then drive the bumpy blacktop road
home to their memories of dark-eyed girls
with rolling hips and smoky laughter,
home to their wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can offer.
Whiskey Memories
As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts rolled their eyes, wagged their heads,
knowing she would never get a man.
Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill,
made-up eyes dark and smoky, with
hips, grandma said, made for birthing.
The boys act the fool around her,
with spotted chins, sleeveless shirts
dreaming of her legs round their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a chevy.
Even the grown men after work,
watch the way she flips her hair
the way she laughs, the way she
spews anger out her eyes when she sees you looking.
They down a scotch or two,
then drive the blacktop road home
to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now stubborn and sour,
who want more than they can give.
Whiskey Memories
As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, rolled their eyes,
knowing she could never find a man.
But now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
and working at the Side Track Grill,
her made-up eyes smoky, piercing,
hips, grandma says, made for birthing.
Boys act the fool around her,
they flirt with her in school,
dreaming of her legs around their waists,
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.
Even the grown men after work
watch the way she flips her hair,
the way she laughs and then shoots anger
from her eyes when she sees them staring.
They wearily down a scotch or two,
before taking the back road home -
home to memories of dark-eyed girls,
of rolling hips and smoky laughter;
home to dreams of success,
home to wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can give.
Side Track Grill
As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, rolled their eyes,
knowing she could never find a man.
Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill
Her made-up eyes are smokey, piercing,
Her hips, grandma said, made for birthing.
Boys act the fool around her,
in sleeveless shirts they work the fields
dreaming of her legs around their waists,
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.
Even the grown men after work
watch the way she flips
her hair just so, the way she laughs
and then shoots anger out her eyes
when she sees them staring.
They wearily down a scotch or two,
before taking the back road home -
home to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
of rolling hips and smoky laughter;
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can give.
Side Track Grill
As a child she was fat like her mother,
her arms and legs tight and round,
her aunts always whispered, carrying tales,
knowing she could never find a man.
But now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
and working at the Side Track Grill
Her made-up eyes are dark and smoky,
a woman now, with grown up demands.
The boys act foolish around her,
with spotted chins and worries heavy,
dreaming of her legs around their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a Chevy.
Even grown men after work,
watch her flip her long black hair,
the way she laughs and then shoots anger
out her eyes when she sees them stare.
They wearily down a scotch or two,
then drive the bumpy blacktop road
home to their memories of dark-eyed girls
with rolling hips and smoky laughter,
home to their wives, now thick and sour,
who want more than they can offer.
Whiskey Memories
As a child she was fat like her mother,
arms and legs sausage tight and round,
her aunts rolled their eyes, wagged their heads,
knowing she would never get a man.
Now she’s almost grown, eighteen,
working at the Side Track Grill,
made-up eyes dark and smoky, with
hips, grandma said, made for birthing.
The boys act the fool around her,
with spotted chins, sleeveless shirts
dreaming of her legs round their waists
hips rolling like the wheels of a chevy.
Even the grown men after work,
watch the way she flips her hair
the way she laughs, the way she
spews anger out her eyes when she sees you looking.
They down a scotch or two,
then drive the blacktop road home
to their memories of dark-eyed girls,
home to their dreams of success,
home to their wives, now stubborn and sour,
who want more than they can give.