Payday Friday

Payday Friday

We left the bar to drive

to the nearest motel

like two kids ditchin school,

me and Hollywood, in his raybans at night.

It was Friday night, payday Friday.

All night he’d held my hand

across the table, laughed in my eyes,

pulled me close slowdancin George Jones,

bought me half a paycheck‘s worth of

butterscotch liquored chick drinks

basted me head to toe for hours in that

hot brown look, til I was more than willin.

All day out with the crew I’d thought of him,

eight hours of idle mind  on the brushhog:

chocolate eyes, lilt to the voice, laugh of a free man,

dark hair thick as moss, coyote smart.

He thought, I’m sure, of my breasts,

my long yellow corn floss hair, maybe

my hands, maybe my soul that knew

where he wanted it to go, without saying.

The bar was hot and rockin. All the guys from work

were there, all my crew and his, kicked back, all the ones

who’d warned me about him just shakin their heads,

smiles in their beers while we danced.

We never even turned on the light

in the motel room—there just

wasn’t  time, only time for wellspring kisses

smoky whispers  “Do you

love it?” barely time for the old soul story 
we told each other, substance over shadow 
in the big bed, smooth as the necklace of pearls
he strung for me

never put in pawn,

here in my jewelbox still.

Me and Hollywood.

I hope his wife treats him good.

July 2011 

A 3:00 a.m. runaway poem probably best at 3:00 a.m, with a nod to Coal Black for the dropped  g's, and the general proletarian ambience, and to Mama Zen for the chocolate. 

A brushhog is a tractor pulling a large mower deck, capable of rough mowing right of ways and brushy fields. Fun to drive. Hot loud and dirty, but fun.

Optional Musical Accompaniment:

and in case you're in the mood for the funkier original, Lowell George & Little Feat, singing the song that got him fired from the Mothers of Invention:

Header Image: courtesy google image search
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