She stands staring out from what she hopes
is an inaccurately named widow's walk
looking at the sunrise
and wonders what he's having for supper
where the indigenous citizenry
have never seen a shrimp much less with grits
for the weekly breakfast for dinner night
on their Target gift registry new dishes
with the hammered pattern silverware.
As he goes to bed that night
wringing sweat from his t-shirt
and pouring out a little piece of the desert
from his boots and underpants
he remembers that it's Friday at home
and his mouth waters a little bit
and the smell of the salt and pepper batter
she rolls over the chicken
before she tosses it in the antique black cast iron skillet
her grandmother gave to them at their wedding reception
on that unseasonable October night
where the overdressed guests sweated
right through their rented finery
and the mosquitoes gorged like second cousins.
She looks out over the water
sun at her back making a brunette angel
with a cigarette dangling from one hand
long ash finally dropping onto the head
of an ill-placed gull picking up scraps.
She watches the water
he stares at the sand
John Hartness is trying to rationalize his hillbilly upbringing with the city noises of Charlotte around him. You can find more about him here.