Even in Gretna, Hearing the Cashier Talk, I Long for Gretna

^{after Basho}

Coasting into my old world to help
mom pack up the house she can’t sell
for nothing rimmed as it is with trash
and canals threatening to overflow
I get a taste for the red drink
of my youth and when the cashier
at the gas station lets slip the drawl
of my people most of them scattered
elsewhere or to the grave I could sob
peacock talk purposely showy and slow
any time I’d hit the twang mom got angry
because I was letting my Gretna show
she threatened a face slap or taste of soap
and I circled on a red bike just out of reach