"Ida, I coulda shot you
three times by now,"
you rushed the last three lines
to finish in one dusty breath,
before the dirt in your chest
overtook the flirt you did best
when winking and telling a tale
from way back
when towns were small
and people were larger
than life.
You were a woman with a shotgun
chasing a woman with your man;
good men were scarcer than
church grackles at a cathouse.
I laughed at how pleased you were
to tell me this story one more time.
For some reason, grandmothers were not allowed
to carry shotguns (or pistols, or knives for that matter).
Society's girders rested on these known facts:
God is good. Dad rules the roost.
Grandma is sweet and has fresh cookies to eat.
Society did not know you, Mamaw.
They snubbed you at the altar of your third wedding,
begging you to play by the rules.
By the time you were asked back to the game,
the rules had changed, and you were no longer
odd man out.
To keep your man
you learned some things
you had to do.
One was to grab your whispering soft sister
and make her wait with you in your '46 Plymouth
Special Deluxe 4-Door, holding the barrel
so you could aim your sight at the door
of the whore
who ran around
with your man.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones