by Sherraine Williams
We drive to spice the lifeless. Patsy wails
how crazy real punch-gut love should feel while
we wind the rural side-track towns and beat
the back roads of almost. It’s your idea
of fun—get baked, escape by rolling on
a chicken-fried frenzy to a plethora
of Pantries, Quality-Quiks, and Seven-
Elevens, tasting each spud-skin, searching
for that one greatest potato log.
Too soon we blunt our hunger, lay
back against cracked leather and laugh, pop the
top to get some air and stare at stars. You
try to take me, surprised, but safety binds
you, your belt buckled tight. Frustrated
but fond you say, Let’s just go home and play.
We straighten, sobering. No momentary
notions will last all those miles back. I pull
Patsy from the eight-track deck in the dash,
put Marvin in. Pull around back, I say,
Let’s see if potato logs roll.
Sherraine Pate Williams was born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee, but now makes her home in a small town in Kentucky with her husband and two children. She is an MFA candidate in poetry at Murray State University’s creative writing program and currently teaches basic literacy skills to adults full time for a local adult learning center. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Antiphon, Measure, Zymbol, The Avatar Review and A Bad Penny Review.