T h e   B e l t 
                                                
Leather, Men’s size 34.  Leather,
say a quarter of an inch thick.
Width, say an inch.   Buckle, two.
Buckle a souvenir the mother picked up
on a trip to Memphis to stick it to
the stick-in-the-mud she was stuck with.
Mr. Conservative with his white shirts
and funeral suits turns up his nose.
Told you to buy me a belt,  he sniffs.
Not trash a rodeo clown would wear.
Later she found it tucked way back,
thought, this’ll do the trick.  Hang it
on the back of the bathroom door,
be  handy.   Still see the Arkansas flag
embossed.  Squeezed in the state bird.
Mockingbird mocks.  Metal’s so shiny,
look hurts.  In time, the target will learn 
the flowers stamped around the edge
were apple blossoms.  State flower, yes.
Almost too little to see.   What with rage
flying out of nowhere.  Go get the belt! 
she screams.    Go get the belt!   
she shouts.  Going to skin you alive!! 

Leather, say a quarter of an inch
thick.  Width, say an inch.  Buckle

                      (c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  July, 2005