Workover

Good evening, Madame Ironside–
it’s hard to believe you’re still alive.
But alive and rocking, here you are,
siphoning oil and guzzling tea
and cawcawing at the Marlows trapped
in the weeds, searching for you,
hedged by all of Houston’s men except me.

Miss, it’s hard to see from your face
you’ve grown old, and it’s hard to see
from your ways that you know
what it means to be wise. Wisdom,
that’s the price you pay when you
spend your time breaking knees and
blasting the breeze at good-ol-
boys to sundown.

At the end of the day, there’s
a road running north that’s calling
my name. You’re with yourself and
your cash and your bored oiljacks,
petering, ready to spill the Texas tea.

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