The fiddles – there are three –
are badly out of tune, and the thumping
of the bass is as heavy and portentous
as the summons of the Reaper himself.
Stout Yankees surround me as I sit,
at the end of a table,
as out of place as that dark imp
at Sleeping Beauty’s christening.
Farmers, truckers, carpenters all –
their ladies bulging in stretch pants
and home-knitted, loud-yarned sweaters –
sit gossiping between great mouthfuls
of corned beef and cabbage,
boiled red potatoes and carrots as large
as any dildo on display in a toy shop.
I know these folk.
They’re shrewd and they’re earthy
but at the same time they’re prudish
and I hear no jokes about carrots
as I eavesdrop, my nose in my journal,
on their homespun conversations.
I have not worn my red shoes
to this church supper,
for all New Englanders know
that red shoes are the mark of a witch,
and for all their fumbling pretensions
to the progress of the world
these rockribbed worthies
would never suffer a witch to live.
© 2013 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved
Observations on the culture in which I live.