Lingo

punch-drunk singles sit at bar stools
too small for rugged rumps; conversations bog
and rent payments cause early withdrawal:
sex is not the answer.

not too many feet climb the stage
eager for dance; no, not too many
hands slide down derrières
plumped by western toast.

butter bleeds in armpits, too soon
made sloppy, the urge for sex stifled by song.

country yodelers prance in white
buckskin, their toes tapping
french fries from yesterday’s
tractor pulls; the yogurt of mustard
and hot dogs raise
an ambrosia to the yellow
sky, not one
note missed by geetars slicked back
into western pompadours, most fans
tasting briskets or wanting
more jello, denying themselves
a one night stand.

an igloo of a fella urges courtesy
to cavorting tourists who hoist
petticoats after just one shot,
their sleek haunches tempting
but not obscenely touched.

getting out of Dodge City rankles desires,
and one horse ponies pull
parked Jeeps aching
to be gone, their loins soaked
with melted cheese and grease.