Clem Potts and the Moon

CLEM POTTS AND THE MOON not a pleasant sound combining potts with the moon, but, farm girls had learned clem potts, in his rustic way, was quite the village dreamer lord of the haystack, when the field was night-flooded, the cows all asleep, was he crooning his love theme - clem potts, wily moon-schemer her name, clara june was the prettiest filly with clem all aswoon she’d met clem potts at the fair where he’d won the ‘dog-eat’ fest forty chili dogs the last one nearly come up he could still taste it the beans, the hot tomatoes belch without puke, the test and, by god, he’d won, had staved off hurl tornado stored the big rumble that churning away inside mixed with green bile and the rest he was quoting keats - the moon-streaked straw in her hair - thinking not those chili dogs, about to brush clara’s cheek, bent on a roll in the hay clem said, “i love you.” lord when lips formed the last word clem’s gut did a flip and the poor young clara june turned blue from the blast, then gray If your name is Potts I must apologize, so too if Clara June.