Bleached Blue Collar

“But it was snow all right,” rang the bells after supper
Calling the drunks home to beat the dogs under the porch
And sing out of slack T-bone cut jaws of iodine scars
And Indian summer tattoos under smallpox blankets.
Sing to me of dear Italy
And put a step or two into the song
I whistle to my wind whipped dishtowel of a wife
With her cross-eyed hate affection
For my brown paper bag wrapped sugar cake,
And she’s a doll just like the mutt bitch under the steps
Missing half of her tale like a drunk storyteller
Just before Easter in a country pretending to be America’s
Red-white glue that’ll hold your teeth to the bottom of a bridge
Just give ‘em any two broken cities and they’ll mortgage
Those bright canines all the way to sale Sunday hell.
The booze is coming down real hard outside and my shoes are getting wet
In this flurry of cats and dogs chasing invisible cats
Who I invite to curl up on my lap just before a knock on the door
From the girl with eleven allergies and one awful temper
Who’d love nothing more than to call out to a night
Full of candles and mosquito bites with wrists
Pointing toward bed and the lock on the door.