She had thick, black, bushy eyebrows
Reminded me of a an old cigar-chompin’, bingo number-reader named Moe
A perfectly-too-small-to-fit-fedora,
leveled on her head
Beautifully worn—sundown jeans—were strategically torn, patched, and
torn again,
tucked into rusty suede boots with orange fringe,
an olive green rucksack sat high upon her shoulder
I waited
I waited
I heard
I-21
Yeah, I knew,
all along
Still, we spoke of Steppenwolf and Venice, and our love of German lit,
her intellect betrayed by her innocence
She laughed a throaty laugh and her black bushy brows beat me down, but
not before I became a schoolboy again, not before
she called me an author
At a roadside dive named The Furnace
she asked me for a special potion,
asked me to give me to her
We sipped whiskey neat with ginger ale backs and
tamed dangerous dogs
I couldn’t help to howl, yet was
forced to turn all the lights up bright,
her amazing bushy brows darkening any glow
Trapped, yet so free, I could only think of
Avalon and fire-forged bingo balls
breaking glass ceilings of ascetics
Gustav and Arthur
didn’t have shit on me
Her thick, black, bushy eyebrows
ruled the rue
This article appears in July 2016.
Cool! You rock Billy.