The World is Dripping in Mud by Rob Lavender
Red will leak. Wait and see what I tell you, boy. Every morning five past ten. Here he comes, wrapped in those bandages. Be-bopping in those draws he ain’t ever filled. Standing in the square sun, streaming through the kitchen window above that raggedy-ass table you bought from Timmy. What? Bring it on. Let me sing. Strap on that guitar, boy. Get in here. Don’t stand there in the Christian’s sun. He’ll be here. You just keep picking. That’s right. Lay it down. Keep that foot stomping. Just like you doin’. Make you ten pounds lighter. Make that rhythm in you come undone. Be swaying like Ray Charles until she gets taken home. Angels standing in their fresh garments, demanding to be heard. But don’t you dare stop. Keep playing. Walk it on out. Yeah, that snapping turtle got my ass. Clenched and didn’t let go until the thunder clapped like ten thousand Indians, raiding the fun, like bass don’t know shit about tenor. Not on the side of this cold-ass hill where our help come from. Leave him be. Come on back into this kitchen. He’ll lumber in directly. Don’t you worry your sweet little head. He’ll see your finger wagging. Put it down now. You want the man to see your foot more than your hand. So you keep smiling like you doin’. Ain’t no sugar in a brown-eyed girl. No sir. It’s the world dripping in mud. Wash it out now. Get that taste out your mouth. Gurgle in that swamp water. Spit. That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. Now sing me a ballad like you want to be heard.
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About the Author
Rob Lavender
Born: Columbia, Tennessee
Now Resides: Decatur, Alabama
Online: www.360westproject.com
Bio: Rob Lavender works at a psych hospital where he teaches creative writing as therapy to suicidal adolescents. Each week his class publishes a chapbook of poetry and short stories. He earned an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. His work has appeared in Brevity, Controlled Burn, Front Porch Journal, and Bare Root Review.
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image by niimo.
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