The ceiling studded like a biker’s belt.
Wife’s wearing white, her fetish, and she takes
a belt of what you’re sipping. Now she’s dancing
with a guy who has a dart stuck in
his belly. Just imagine Pap’s syringe
in one of Momma’s lemon-carrot Jello
molds. Today you saw two bear cubs in
a tree. Wife slipped on rocks across a stream:
you caught her, smelled her cigarette, and kissed
her quickly. Now you sing alone to “Good
ol’ Rocky Top.” Twelve country 8-tracks stacked
behind the bar, like tablets of the prophets.
Mountains smoked inscrutably when you
arrived. How much loss they must abide.
Thomas Zimmerman (he/him) teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review https://thebigwindowsreview.com/at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. His poems have appeared recently in Grand Little Things, Sledgehammer, and A Thin Slice of Anxiety. Tom's website: https://thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com/ Twitter: @bwr_tom