Published in Picayune Magazine, 2011
They never knew that Toughskins
weathered hands and cavities,
were the order, not enough hands
translates to more work.
Designer britches, hmmph.
Their lives were not cluttered with opinions and taste.
Town was all that, bats
marionetted through mosquitos and dusk
as they walked in from Saturday’s crop,
packing up in neighbor’s pickup
and counting the fourteen green mile-markers.
Star Carnival seldom sets up shop
and for five hours it outweighs
every minute of other thoughts,
the field and the four wheeler.
The freckles and candy apples
even outweigh those stupid britches.
They’ll never know about
the vain denim designer from Vermont,
a cloppety wooden coaster
and the spotty bulbs of the ferris,
they dictate now.
The city, see, cannot conceive
that work is what they
know, cannot grasp how
they do not get
said, stupid designer.
but simplicity’s brisk gust
through the midway and mirrors,
the small glow of dust and laughter
becomes a warm fog, night knocking.
There are squeals from the old house, and Billy,
armored in his Toughskins, walks
his little sister home.