She smelled of trailer park trash.
That cheap scent of unused, sun-faded perfume
could have filled even the biggest of rooms.
Her idea of a good time was state fair hot dogs,
mustard dripping, staining her Walgreens-bought nails
that were just long enough, it seemed,
to hinder her ability to write an error-free phrase.
She was a two-pack-a-day kinda girl,
always saving the last bit of bills in her purse
so she could get an extra pack of ultra lights if the week was rough.
(Her breath was unbearable)
And the 7-10 split inside her mouth
challenged even the best of professionals,
but it was the swirl of her southern swagger that pierced ears,
sounding as if it needed the accompaniment of an
old, out-of-tune, broken-stringed banjo.
The Walmart jewelry did nothing for her worn features,
and her poodle-permed hair probably housed
one of her missing earrings...
The one she thought she had lost forever
while she was reverse-cowgirling Rodney from last weeks rodeo.
His big, brass, belt buckle sure wasn't easy to get off,
but he definitely was.
It took three .25 cent grocery store pony rides
before she felt anything close to satisfaction.
At least her ex-husband, the mechanic,
still knew how to grind her gears.
Her idea of home was not "where the heart is",
but where the double-wide sat.
The closest thing she had to a wrap-around porch
was the chicken wire fence that surrounded her yard
and the always-collapse-when-you-sit-in-them lawn chairs
she placed so precariously inside it.
Her hero hailed from NASCAR.
Her Doctor was actually Nancy the Nurse.
And her dreams never really amounted to much of anything at all.
But as she left mass on this most holy, Sunday afternoon,
giving a big "Fuck you," middle fingers flying,
I realized that she may not have much,
but she has always had enough.