For the Love of a Cadillac and a Cousin
—Jerry Lee Lewis
A bucket of cognac later and I’m wax paper
smooth, shaking down the night like it owes me
rent. Baby, don’t you know
these fingers’ dance on the teeth
of others? I can shoot dice down the throat
of The Old American South until it shits sevens,
but I still can’t make this piano love me.
Worst of all, it doesn’t seem to notice
those chartreuse suits, the jelly-roll trim,
those trousers cuffed thick as bankrolls
propping me up like a greased marionette.
When the Grand Ole Opry shook
like a Cadillac on bad gas
it was the keys that earned the encore.
Ashton Kamburoff is a poet from Cleveland, Ohio. His work has appeared in Toad, Blast Furnace, Flyover Country Review as well as other literary magazines. He currently lives in San Marcos, Texas where he is an MFA candidate at Texas State University.