Poem By RoseAnn V. Shawiak
I be awerkin' at fixin' dinner,
and my man, he be awerkin' in the fields,
and well, I just startin' inta dreamin'
'bout me a-dancin' in Paris.
I be wearin' sparkly shoes with high, skinny
heels, and one o' them slinky gowns. I'm a-drinkin'
that bubbly stuff outin' a one-legged glass.
Lotsa good-lookin' men be astin' me ta dance.
Then my man comes home, clumpin' in muddy
boots, his shirt and pants dirty and dusty.
He be a mess! Ceptin' his eyes-they be warm
'n brown like new-plowed fields, and his voice
be like a river a-flowin', so deep and smooth.
'Dinner ready yet, sugar bun? '
His hand touches my hair right gentle-
like the breeze of a summer night a-mussin'
the leaves o' the willer tree. 'Long about then,
my heart feels like velvet cushins be a-pressin'
agin' it. Well, I startin' inta thinkin'...
who wants ta be dancin' in Paris anyhow?