A purple light gleams from his black
cheek, a spit-shine for which I have
no words, for three hours a dark

guitar, four fat fingers, and the opposite
thumb nail, flail from the sleeves of
a Mississippi tee, saturated with free

shots in plastic cups and the remnants
of his silver flask, below a Jack Daniels
ballcap, whiny notes burst a pearly

smile for the cameras, for cellphone
photos and wobbly videos, love making
lyrics directed at the unsuspecting

women who have just arrived, or at the twenty
something blue-dreaded honey who began to
dance before T-Model opened his mouth

to moan or to mope, before the fever broke
before he was given the rose from a
toothless vendor who thought the ghost of

Bo Diddley was among us, the set came
to a close, and he spoke sullenly about treating
A woman as he treats his guitar and hoped
they would be indebted to pet his soft hands.

~ ~ ~
Aaron WiegertAaron Wiegert is a poetry editor for Drunk Monkeys webzine and the author of Evil Queen, a chapbook from Budget Press. His work has appeared in Tulane Review, South Carolina Review, Burner Magazine, Antique Children Quarterly, and Poetry Salzburg Review. He can be reached at aarondwiegert@gmail.com.