An Old Fart Remembers
by Ken Wheatcroft-Pardue


You call this rain?
You probably call a mild case of heartburn love.
Now when I was young, it really rained.
40 days and 40 nights!
And we didn’t mess with no dinky ark neither.
We’d wade right in,
water moccasins brushing against our thighs
& for fun we hunted alligator gar with our bare hands.

Once, I even found an Idaho potato,
floating in slime.
After I sidearmed it, it skipped,
skipped for hours like a hyperactive king on a checkerboard.

And it didn’t stop at no horizon neither.
It just flew right off the edge of the earth
until it hit the sun, and all the water froze.
So we bent some old tin cans and made ice skates
and skated to the end of the world.

Hell, we didn’t have ten trillion TV channels, cellphones,
DVD’s, iPods, or any of that modern crap,
but our lives, believe it or not, were still worth living.


I miss you.
I miss your halter tops, your faded hip huggers,
your flowery leather belts.
I miss even the salty taste
of mid-afternoon sweat above your lips.

Yet most of all, I miss
your gymnastic tongue that once danced
between my inner lip and bicuspids.
Really, I miss you.

Where are you?
Are you bitter now?

Having sworn off men,
having sworn off women,
and for what?

Cable & comfort food?
Chocolates & channel surfing?
The nightly ride on the Lazyboy?

Or, are you still interested?
Your muscular tongue still hiding
behind your Mona Lisa smile.

Copyright 2023 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.