The air, it grew heavy, with the rocking ‘neumonia and the boogie woogie flu. But Creoe, she just danced and shook the rubber chicken, “Doo-dah! doo-dah! all night long,” caught in the moonlight, swaying like a potted Cypress, buttnaked, going full Bullwinkle, strutting her stuff, stuck in Lodi, Mississippi, again. And Papa said to Mama. “pass the Black Eyed Peas and the biscuits, please.”
Creole, she just laughs, swinging the rubber chicken upside-down, lettin’ it drip like it’s made of molasses, singing. Her bare feet stamping circles in the dust, stirring up a storm of red clay and cigarette-butts, while her shadow stretches long and wrong against the trailer-park siding. Dancing for Mr. Green Jeans.
But Creole, don’t care, she keeps dancing and keeps stirring-up DoorDash shaking that chicken like it had a pecking disorder, caught in a cotton gin. And Papa says, “Creole, you best stop that, you’re calling up somethin’, somethin’ old and mean.” The wind picks up, smelling decaying kisses, but Creole don’t stop—she ain’t never stopped, not since the night the moon bled like a stuck pig and the river coughed up three rusted old talismans—Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.
