stacked

her loves are stacked like pancakes
crushing the china plate
pressing the ornate pattern
and hand painted designs
right into the table top
spoiling the dust jackets.

then the boomerangs
and the starbursts
erupt into sonnets
with a little decay
and some clip.

but the pronunciations
are articulated
with a touch of reverb
and the names
have all been changed
(to protect
the innocent)

he sits by the camp fire
playing his guitar
with the pools of cool blue moonlight
dancing around his steel-toed Red Wing work boots
and an empty case of Old Style cans
(cause it was the most he could buy for the money)
the crumpled empties lay about
metallic folds glisten
in the amber firelight
forming constellations in the sand

the chord patterns progress
under his clumsy inebriated fingertips
and the melody melts
like butter under the hot syrup
of his lust and her loneliness
and expectations
stalled, unexpectedly
somewhere on the desolate highway
out on the Indian reservation
where the howling resides
and the berries are bitter,
but brightly colored