Living Right Poem by James McLain

Weekend city folks
coming out to the country
green glory holes.
Putin on airs, my sister does
just like yours.

I get up
and move farther away.
Don't want to hear no soap
opera drama.
They themselves created.

Spending more on their shoes
than I wear out in one life.
Though the toes are pretty
not to fat, one is too skinny.

Even the bar maid knows
that the air smells different.

I over hear,
Ellaiswise comment on the lips
of the blond catty one
and her cheeks seem paralyzed
from the eyes down.


On the dairy my job
might deal with
black and white cows
but I don't have to pick
up their tails and wipe their noses
and I don't
have to keep my head down.

Country folks are simple
like me and they can see.
What those city girls
just can't see.
How I work all week
on the dairy.


Coveralls and a quick shower
and a cup of wigglers
down by the old mill stream
just in case.

And as I turn away from
white Russians made
with skim milk.

The tall one asks me where
I buy my cologne.
She says it smells
French.
I tell her it is made down the road
just a spell.