In the state of Texas
along an overgrown sidewalk in the burbs
where crabgrass creeps through cracks to claim her jungle
her concrete jungle her humid jungle her city of smog
that you feel between the exposed toes in your sandals.
There is a white girl in sparkling leather, gum smacking and
genuine horse clomping boots. Everything is bigger in Texas.
Our boots, our boobs, our white gossamer hair.
John is on her phone saying will you be at the football game, Sherry, will you?
On an overgrown sidewalk in the state of Texas where the superfluous
meets the humble. Someone says that being southern means there’s more
Jesus worshipers. Pink claws and crocodile purses hand out
chicken noodle soup with mother of pearl smiles. Dirty, dirty,
in different ways. Crabgrass, money, jealousy, all green. Crosses hang on the necks
of vultures. I’m so stupid warm in this buttermilk
biscuit basket. A lady with cheetah print spectacles crosses
the street to avoid the man playing guitar with a sunburnt smile.
Generosity only knows soup.
Everything is bigger in Texas.
Everyone is smaller.
Dear Texas, dear cowboy with dirty brown crescent nails, dear soft
skinned southern girls who worship false suns until they themselves are the cows they kill for leather, everyone who begs for water under the highway in August, who drive in rusted trucks, in super cars, dear people who laze in air conditioning with bellies stuffed full.
Dear Texas, where Katy Perry rivals Garth Brooks and farmhands kiss cheerleaders.
Someone is telling me it’s too hot to go for a run. It’s not too hot
to beg for cash with a cardboard sign. That’s how I think of Texas.
Someone begging for money, someone begging for God’s grace.
-for somewhere so big, we are all so small
