poetry 2017 / 030

Acoustic Clog

Penny played the banjo

finger-picking a five string

in the Appalachian style.

She never looked at it –

always away, away –

the loose flap of skin beneath her jowls

flapping with the motion of her arm,

her jaw clenched with the effort

of remembering the tune in her head.

She was pretty good at it;

instilled a love in me

of that hillbilly shit-kicking style

though her friends were less desirable

in their button-down plaid

and their beer-swilling southern drawls

(we're talking Dorset here).

I'd buy another banjo in a heartbeat

but it would probably remind me of the heartbreak

and the almost-broken jaw.