horseshoe, clean hit
against the rusted bar
(ringer, spit).
soles squelch against
maleficent pine.
shadowed teemers hang in a
fine line
(garb, gabble, & smack).
I will never know your face.
editors note:
This poem is the song of the South. If it’s not softballs and beers, it’s certainly horseshoes. And as the immortal game is played, the world goes and goes one Swirled clean set of sheets and pile of undies at a time. – mh