Zip-up ankle boots and a voice
like Deputy Dawg, rheumy eyes
on the sidewalk and the traffic behind.
‘What y’all lookin' at?’ the lip curl
echoed something less wrinkled,
more vibrant. Sexy?
Collar of his plaid shirt turned up,
an anorexic quiff falling over one eye;
the one I could see on the real
tupelo honeys walking by.
I didn’t say what, or who, I
thought I was looking at,
and he walked into the steam coming
out of the last Mom and Pop
diner in Tennessee, clicking
his fingers all the way.
Comments
Ssor | February 20, 2008 - 15:36
Have the impression of a down-on-his-luck version of Dylan's Diamond Jim from Blood on the Tracks. But then, perhaps this is a subtle comment on where Bob himself has ended up: "Walkin through streets that are dead." Sorry for the diversion. Love the description and that feeling of Americana we far reaches Northerners associate with the music.