The Trudge

at dusk day’s heat

has not stymied.


the sun droops behind the treeline

the buzz of cicadas presses in my ears.

from the pit

firesmoke clings to my hair;

the pork comes off the spit

thick with gristle and slathered in hot sauce.

i lick my upper lip.


from the porch a fiddlin’ band watches

the day’s slow trudge westward.

fingers dance over strings

the gentle rub of horsehairs

sending song to the rafters.

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