Cotton rocked back inside that moody patch.
And white washed fence
with songs of the southland
and lazy dusty bottoms
my coon hound and ford pick up
how I prayed.
Eyes inside the curtains
lovely sleep and deeply to reveal
and tongues are slowly moved
back and forth I hear muffled sound.
Brown eyes can't but slowly follow
arresting new sundresses
old and never out of fashion
giving not the sun a yellow thought.
and lazy days
I sip ice tea through a clear long straw
day old butter milk and corn bread
hear it sweetly call.
While salty sweat pools in shadows
cool I find with no regrets
those tanned cotton bottoms tan brown skins.
Southern common sultry post modern looks
seen in a
page turning southern living magazine
while clouds white warm
some are even hot on day's like this
while to most is all I see
Soft cotton squeezed.