The Holy Ghost drinks RC Cola clinging to the peanuts
as rapture rides a John Deere in the red clay vibrating the pickle eggs and linoleum in the single wide as mama irons hot patches of George Jones on Bubba’s bib overalls.
Jesus spits the shells of sunflower seeds all over her freshly mopped floors but Mary cleans up after her boy, still there’s nothing for the barefoot toddler covered in bloody mulberry stains.
Outside the cicadas in twilight’s muscatel, choir a mango in the communal bedpan, cattywampus to a pawn and tattoo shop.
Sit down at the crowded Cracker Barrel then crack a case of twenty four, dancing between the abandoned cars with the fireflies, praying for a baptismal shower to break the heat. Sipping the tadpole chowder. Breaking through the static, as George Jones croons. “Who’s Gonna Fill Their Shoes.”
Hey! This is good, Miss Sprocket.