The warm air blows off the panhandle for the second time that week, as the old wooden chair on grandfather’s porch creaks its way to salvation. And Brittle Andrew howls his madness and frustrations into the wind.But there ain’t no one listening, not even God.He’s left these parts a while back. Somewhere out there in the Mississippi, an alligator, with wasted stealth, sits waiting on its prey to pass its mouth but it never will, least not this particular night.
And hanging from a swamp dogwood tree is the crumpled body of Leroy Shants who broke the code of entering the ice cream parlor while those troublesome white kids were taking a lifetime to leave. The Pastor sits looking at his wife wondering how he’d got to be where he’s at, as Betty Sue spends the final hour of the day putting on some makeup she knows is all wrong and does what she always does and cries herself to sleep.
Undertaker Boy swigs another sweet bourbon knowing that he’s jealous of the dead,and as my eyes weld shut, the rain falls on Mitchell County and washes away the blood.
bobby stevenson 2015