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A High Lonesome Lovesick Blues
for Sarah Jo, 1953
Joanna Grant
the eyes of creeping and soaring things
swivel towards the pale ribbon of dusty
highway at the grind of tires on gravel
and asphalt in the blue hush of evening
come summer come winter
the close air of this kitchen leans
on her like an unwelcome
suitor and working over
a hot stove sure doesn't
help matters any
in the quiet of the dwindling year's night
the high beams of the old Chevrolet
pierce the violet stuffs of the air
straight on through to the invisible horizon
sometimes she thinks
she was born in a kitchen and
she'll live her days and die in one,
and Lord knows how many chickens
she's fed, raised, wrung the necks of,
cut up and floured to feed to her man
when he returns if he comes home at all
but who is this behind the wheel
the planes of whose face leap
into view at the flick of his Zippo,
whose right hand toys with the radio dials
looking for a country station with decent reception?
the thing with fried chicken
is that towards the end she's
bound to get popped with
some real hot grease; the smell
settles with aggravation and sweat
into the folds of her old mended
blue print dress, dragging down
her unfurling pincurls
the tip of his cigarette glows in the night
as his long fingers tune in a familiar song
"I got a feelin' called the blues, oh Lawd
Since my baby said goodbye."
he grins into the rearview mirror
but the skinny boy with the old man's face
half-hidden by the battered cowboy hat
makes no sign of life nor recognition
everything's nearly ready now
and she sure is feeling fine
after a couple quick belts
from the bottle in the cupboard
so she turns the radio up high-
"lovesick blues."
and his lips part in a long slow smile
as his fingers grip the steering wheel
"sweet daddy."
soon enough the Chevrolet
will leave the night behind
(no one gets out of this world alive)
but leave her for now
doing a quick dance turn
on the old linoleum
singing into a wooden spoon-
"I got the lovesick blues."
ISSN: 1449 - 0471
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