"Fried Fish"
1
It wuz a strange time ta be thinkin’ of perch,
but as sure as I got the crotch rot I saw one
layin’ in the sky – a fried up piece of heaven.
Ya see, it wernt swimmin’ – clouds slashed
`cross the blue like the bones of one I ate.
Ma cooks perch up nice – a crop of onion slices
and a carrot pile the size of a squirrel’s acorn stash
just before winter begins ta spit and holler.
Like I said though, it wuz a queer time ta be strummin’
my thoughts against a good meal with a piece
of Fed lead munchin’ on my leg somewhere
between my balls and my knees. Reckon
it wuz my right leg seein’ that’s the one
that doc sawed off. Boys all told me
most losin’ a limb ask fer whiskey or shine –
said I wuz beggin’ for a plate of fried fish. Mama
would never let a drunk eat at her table and it looks
like I’m gonna be wantin’ her blessin' a bit more.
2
It’s been some time now. Ma’s been fryin’ up them perch,
onions and all. I sleep lots. Not much I can do to help –
propped against a tree, I feed the chickens
but that ain’t much to make a man feel like a man.
All I really do is find myself a quiet place
and yank my dick, but even that’s been gettin’ dull.
Stays soft most days – might as well pull on a stretch
of taffy. I let Annie, my sister, and her friends watch,
but that ain’t fun no more. Seems all I got is Ma’s fish
and that won’t hold me till I’m dead, so I’m thinkin'
I'll tuck a bullet in my brain tonight. Pa’s got that rifle.
I can still reach the trigger with the one foot
Lord left me with. He wants me dead anyhow –
He just picked a Yank that needed to aim a might higher.
© 2007 Scott
Summers
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