Your Mother’s Empty Head

it’s a long, dusty road
out to your mom’s, a covered wagon
made it in some movie, the only
fame the damned town ever knew
until you left your mom’s house
one Sunday at noon.

sure, carry yourself like some
victor, like some hunted animal,
shock the virgins at the
high school, dress up like
Lindsey Lohan, expose one breast
and rock the concert.

pabulum will be served next time, so
iron your panties, settle your stomach,
exercise your options, and
drag me to the altar, my backside
peppered by buckshot
and your ol’ man singing
Willie Nelson songs out
the pick-up window.