The mother scrubs plates with a tea-brown sponge
as children sword fight with table legs.
The books on the shelves are arranged by color.
In the garage there's a work-scarred saddle
and stacks of string-tied Vogue and Elle magazines.
She toils nights serving cheeseburgers to tourists
living on spinach-green pills they wash
down with watery beer. Lonely truckers sometimes
say her gold-plated anklet from El Paso is cute,
but Hud is never coming in his pink Cadillac.
Chris Isaak sings You Took My Heart
on the radio from outer space...
and her kids smash another set
of water glasses stolen from work.
The bitter marrow of a dead marriage
is on her tongue, but she has a mind
to buy that hemp mini-dress,
get some of that shank bone soup
education at the junior college.
* This poem is included in a 2010 Red Shuttleworth poetry chapbook, Drug Store Vaquero (Phoenix: The Basement).