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Looks Like the Hound Who Caught the Car

Is how you pace the hardware store
            asking the man for a sheet of glass
the kind they don’t make anymore
            for your back door when you don’t
have two nickels to rub together.

Last week you thought she came
            down the road like a Tennessee
Walker, finer than froghair, a tall
            drink of water—so you bought
her a wax job, chrome hubcaps

& bet the prizehog you could get
            in her pants—then dug out a fence
(why the perimeter of your yard
            is a mile long trench) & hauled ass
after her bumper down I-10. Not

like you to turn tail for a whistle or
            holler home. Crazy as a shithouse
rat—by week’s end she’d bought
            the dress & borrowed blue to marry
you—who change your mind a day

late & a dollar short. Is why her
            bocce balls landed like three burned
out engines on your kitchen floor,
            while your new live-in stoked lover’s
grits & made the appointment to have

you fixed. What you woofed at weren’t
            after all, the best tennisball breasts in
the sweethereafter, but headlights. It’s
            why your ears resemble windblown
tracks & you hack up asphalt (though

your fur shines with a halogen brilliance).

Jane Springer

Murder Ballad
Alice James Books

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