Lilly Luce Louise

lives  in the loess hills

above the muddy Missouri

where the four states converge,

and when she awakes each day,

she slips her red gown on,

gliding the silk over her head,

and down her hips,

before she pads

outside in bare feet

to feed her Barred Rock chickens,

gathers their eggs,

fries a couple,

yolks easy over,

and sops them up

with yesterday’s biscuit.

Then she walks

two miles to town,

slinging her sandals over

 her pink, white-blotted neck,

and scuffs the road’s

loose, brown earth

to feel its warm scratch

between long toes.

The store keeper sees her coming,

which churns his gut

as she goes,

but he calls

to the sharp-tongued woman,

Lilly Luce Louise,

must you wear

that red dress to town?

Or, at least wear

some things under it

when you smoke your pipe

on my curb,

and keep your knees together,

so the ladies don’t holler to me,

“Store-keep, why must

you let us be bothered

by the foul woman,

Lilly Luce Louise."

Ladies, huh?

growls Lilly Luce Louise,

baring her teeth over

the smoke

curling up to her ears,

patting her gray-brown hair down,

as she turns to stare

at his righteous glare,

while she tamps new wad in her pipe.

Listen closely,

says Lilly Luce Louise,

my sweet,

little bald-headed fellow,

and I’ll tell thee

the truth about life

for thee must know about ladies

if one like thee

is ever to find a wife.

Women are like apples

crowded on a tree

that grow red, ripe and lush

for fools that look like thee.

The rotten ones fall to the ground

where men in their frailty

easily pick them up.

The best of them grow

at the top of the tree

thinking they aren’t desired,

but they only wait

for the best of the men,

the ones who have truly learned

to persist, to truly be

true to themselves,

to climb to the top of the tree.

Now the men are like grapes,

lowly things,

 grown on a vine,

full of grunge and effluent,

that must be stomped repeatedly

to make fine,

time-tested wines

that women can welcome to dinner.

Thee are improving,

my poor little man,

thy squishing

is beginning to show,

so would thee climb a tree

to reach

Lilly Luce Louise

in her apple-red gown,

to come share

wine at my supper?

Then she blows

smoke in his face,

and smiles

with broad-stretched lips,

before hurrying home

to prepare to fry eggs

in case he shows

for his dinner,

a finely fermented,

obviously aged,

triumphant apple-search winner.

 Copyright 2009, Jerry W. Engler