I finally decided to shave my legs
somewhere outside of Baton Rouge,
just as your head (lookin' like a
rusted skillet) swung toward the road.
You rubbed your bear-like belly,
of the hunger and the peas and rice.
I said what does it matter, I can't cook nohow.
The sun started spillin' just then,
poured like a smooth liquor over my calves.
I found a flat sharp stone and
chiseled at the coarse hairs.
You pointed your toes toward the north,
I decided to make a bed right there,
on the side of the road, somewhere outside of Baton Rouge,
in the sparse grass, inside the weeds,
and small nippled rocks.
You burned like a kerosene lamp on a hill.