You’ve got that hometown stare, and you throw it my way every time I bend over a little too far. I feel like I’m at the high school football game and you’re making a touchdown. They’re cheering and I’m trying to remember how you scored on me. We do this dance each time I come back from my latest failed escape, crawling into the local bar, where the patrons raise expectant eyebrows. They knew I wouldn’t make it far, not past the county line. There you are at the spinning jukebox, with a cold one ready. I’m a wet t shirt contest away from being the harvest queen of po-dunk hell, you’ve been wearing your crown for years now. We’ll take slow steps to your pick up, then out to the point where we misplaced our body parts once upon a time. You’ve been waiting for my return, tail between my legs, beaten down to the trailer park one more time. Johnny Cash, you haven’t even changed your soundtrack to undressing me on a country night. Mama, you told me I wouldn’t go far, not with legs like that, wrapping around the quarter back. I’m small time, small town. But tonight, as you slide my now faded panties off, I know I’m going down. This is my death rattle and I’m taking you with me. At first you don’t notice, but you hear the shot, a firecracker on the fourth of July. The wound starts to flower out from that barrel chest, your eyes searching for a reason. I kick that hunk of body off of me. I roll you out the back of your truck bed and start the engine. I’m falling into a burning ring of fire and you’re all gonna burn like my dreams. First stop the local watering hole, Blackie’s Badlands Saloon. Hear the shotgun, bang, reload, hit ’em all again. Take out the local liquor mart, with a bottle of Jack in one sweaty fist and my old Colt in the other. The faces that knew I’d never leave, never registered my return, never knew I even left, are looking a little more stunned when I plug the cashier at Red’s Food Store. Down fall the town folk, wriggling like the night crawlers we hooked for fishing on moonlit summer’s eves. I load my arsenal in the back of Lucas’s truck, thank god for America and propane. Two miles to Happy Hills trailer park, two miles and fifteen cylinders of fury. When I roll the tanks under sleeping silver Air Streams, I know I’m playing my leading lady role, I know I’m the star of a tragedy not soon to be forgotten. Light a Marlboro Red, listen to the gas hiss from a fold out lawn chair, take dead aim at the white target under my Mama’s pride and joy. I won’t make nothing out of nothing, can’t be something if I’m part of this septic shit. Time for my inferno, time for hell on earth. Pulling back the trigger, I think I was laughing when I let her go.