‘Coons and ‘Possums

July 17 2011

Heat makes us stupid.

We are a northern people,

hustling to get things done

in the short winter window

of light.

Invigorated by cold

resourceful in storms,

snow-stayed

but keeping cozy.

So now I understand

a southern drawl.

The lazy vowels

and idle pause,

long enough

to chew tobacco

and spit it out.

The overgrown lawn,

dotted with beaters

abandoned parts.

The shotgun, sawed-off

for pot-shots, at ‘coons and ‘possums,

off the porch

from a broken rocker,

boots propped on the rail.

I feel that way today

wilting in the heat,

back-bone wobbly

muscles gassed.

I try to think

but humidity has rotted my brain.

Something in the kitchen stinks

of advanced decomposition,

but I haven’t any interest

in sniffing it out.

We have always bragged

“you don’t need air-conditioning

up here”,

smug in our stoic frugality.

But nowadays

I’m having my doubts.

I apologize for the shameless stereotyping. On the other hand, the ludicrous hyperbole should make it clear to even the most politically correct that my tongue is firmly in my cheek.

Not a poem for the ages, I agree. But not too shabby, considering a bad case of incipient brain rot!! I’m especially proud to have shoe-horned in the rhyme of “frugality” with “nowadays”.

A “humidex” warning today. I guess this is the summer counterpart of “wind chill”. No fun, either way.