Twain

after Shania

It is Sunday evening
You’ve been out
Who with

Whose hood did you pop
Whose coozie sleeved your Bud while rigs whistled down I-10 unheard
Whose truck has your lawn been under
Whose screen door have you sprained
Whose fingers tangled your fringe
From whose lacy things have you come un stained
Whose braids have you un done while I was asleep out in the bed
Whose field have your boots been under

Whose longhorn has your rodeo circuitry or
prize belt your buckle cinctured

Whose boots burnt skinsnake garters
moongut skyhigh mindshaft

For all the barbs in a wire mile
Who’s been tanned by the same sun
that done tanned you