for Heather McAdams

I wish they all could be Country Calendar girls, Maxi Minnie Pearls,
Big teeth and big bones, 76 Sousaphones no match for fiddle, stand-up bass, and Jew’s harp;
Sharp mouth and a strong backhand, slappin’ down any gland that ain’t acting right:

This means you, fellas; yeah you, all lathered up, Hell-bent for pleather, or maybe Heather,
whether frothing with Burma Shave saving grace or Brylcreem dreams, scheming, strumming,
bumming cigs, striking matches, humming snatches of song, remembered snatches of bawdy limericks, weenie roast and campfire sing-a-longs, Sunday morning hymns
and Saturday night curses, nursing a PBR,

— calling shotgun in your own hearse —

first up when it’s last call, and ready to crawl
over hot coals, broken glass, and shards of your own 45 RPM
when it’s time to come home again
to your Country Calendar girl.