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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.

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