she was from
des moines or
maybe dubuque
it was iowa
so that meant
pig ass or rows
of corn for feed
or high fructose
corn syrup and
either or was
certainly bad
for the heart
there was this
hint of trouble
behind that wide
midwestern smile
a sign of smoke
in her beguiling
easy going way
you could try
to catch her but
you’d both get
scars and she
would slip away

she magically got
closer between the
rounds i didn’t
remember ordering
and now i am cute
every word finding
utmost hilarity
and incidental
contact seems to
have outgrown the
umintentionality
and there is that
fire smoldering
just beneath the
bottomless brown
the last playful
slap on the thigh
ended when she
forgot to pull
her hand back and
she squeezed with
that nagging hint
of trouble i saw
earlier before the
beer became whiskey
and she was talking
breathily into my
ear and sending
shivers dancing down
my spine to that
spot on my thigh

she might have been
from muscatine or
davenport or any of
the other small towns
spread across the
stalks of corn and
slaughterhouses of
scenic shitty iowa
where a fool spent
some time sowing oats
but there was a kind
of familiarity in
that unassuming sort
of that restrained
midwestern passion
that pairs well with
wonderful mistakes
and you can always
wear the scars like
a badge of honor and
feel that twinge in
your hip when it is
going to be rainy
or at least that is
what i’ve been told