Love Shack, Anadarko

In the little tornado alley of their love
he’d become a tarpaper shack
that was pretty much
gettin its ass whipped
all over Oklahoma

her lips’d just ripped him right off the ground
that was one thing

besides which there was a bunch of brindle cows
being tossed around in there
mooing their little heads off
(he suspicioned that those cows might have somethin to do
with the cyclonic powers of her breasts
but hadn’t quite worked out how)

her smile itself  had flung in
a few roosts of free-range chickens and a wringer washer
unstrung half a mile of barbed wire
and churned a buncha shady cottonwoods
a spun green blizzard
that was somethin else

they was also assorted metal farm implements
mutant-lookin bladed ones
clangin and awhirlin and crowhoppin in that awful cloud
like 40 drunken sodbusters
from her sweet sashay alone

and somethin else he noticed right off
that high up
her blindin 200 mph prairie dust
sure smelled fine
that and the fact that way way way down on the ground
everbody else looked really really really tiny

but when her pickemup truck started doing 360s and barrel rolls
round and round the inside of that little Midwest love funnel
somebody (maybe it was even him)
was right quick standin
i mean standin
on the horn

didn’t take two shakes before that love shack was popping off nails
like seed corn through a hopper
thank god he’d given up dippin
cause that was no kinda place
to be worried bout a spit cup

why he hadn’t beat a path to the storm cellar
when he’d first looked out the back door
and seen her dark eyes headed his way
was a unsolved mystery to him

when the sound of her voice alone had rattled his plumbin
he shoulda run like hell
when her soft little hand had snuck into his own
like a skinny Comanche snakin after a fat pony
he shoulda dynamited the homestead his ownself
cause the Judgment Day wasn’t far behind

now his very own cowboy boots were boomerangin
in and out his busted windows
and whompin little love knots
all about
his head

plain and simple truth mister
he was caught in her twister
in a bad bad way

in the end wasn’t much left of him
but a few poor splinters

twirling mile high


Audio version performed by the author.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2022)
More Poems by Michael Thompson