hunker down
between
row crops
and drainage
ditches lined
with cattails
and Pabst Blue Ribbon
beer cans
rusty at the tops.
Strange birds
run like chore boy
bandits away
from their nests.
The Bar,
an old share-cropper
bungalow,
sits hunched over
from the weight
of the years
and the memories.
The patrons
work for someone else
or draw a check
and spend days
drinking dollar cans
of bootleg beer.
A hand written
sign reads
"No Pot Smokin
or sellin",
but it is
okay if you
do it out by
the truck.
Gallon glass
jars offer
pigs feet or
pickled eggs,
and some days
The Bar
smells of charred
meat
cooked on a grill
made from a
30 gallon drum.
