A fistful of dollars could not buy this strange plot.
Thickened with humidity…surrounded by misplaced granite…
We have never lived by Good Housekeeping standards.
So…why start now?
An Irish drunkard bought the family farm with a cow…
Trouble wears…US…best anyhow.
Learned to dance on knock off…fake wood.
Jiving Saturday chores with…Johnny B. Goode.
You had told me before…a long ago ancestor really should have spent more time…
‘looking under the hood.’
Still, a fight to the finish in this secret war.
A glance over my shoulder…in this cemetery of dashed dreams…
Only opens my scrapbook of ‘nothing is quite what it seems.’
Lesson learned?
Four walls could never contain our kindred jailhouse scenes.
