Only my soft Southern drawl could have waited so long.
Innocent and unused, feminine, deep, and gentle,
She must see me so lovely to have thought to pause at all.
My Southern drawl chooses carefully where she rests.
She does nothing impatiently. She loves only who she can.
It is kind at all, a kind or gentle about a grace submissive.
When I pray old prayers, I'm metadated.
When I tell old jokes, I'm metadated.
When I pray old prayers, I'm metadated.
Lord, have mercy upon us.
I'm a hill-country jay, a layup, and a dragonfly.
I'm a Ralph Lauren oxfordcloth wrinkle-dry.
I'm executioner, apologist, steady-weighted,
I stayed decades or more just to see you so I thought,
And I think I'm the one who left you.
I've spent years of wholeness digging down
and shiver nights all starry-eyed.
A box up top holds old friends;
Cavities below shout fears or ache in like the wind-knocked-out.
They're traveling companions. But these are not that hidden voice.
To it: To my broken kindness and its thoughtful changes, Why don't you look upset, kid?