Baggage

Some days I open my mouth
and I'm suddenly wearing
a story that other people see.

I must look like an old pair of overalls
or just someplace south that's hot and humid.
This scene stars, “me,” with a belt buckle
and pearl snap-buttons dripping down my shirt.
I wear boots of course.

A scratchy soundtrack drowns out my words
leaving handfuls of drawly, clipped suffixes
to take their places out in the dusty street,
their hands hovering just above their holsters.

Today's crop of tourists only see me
in a crowd of folks holding jars of sweet tea,
our tobacco stained lips spew vitriol for anybody that
didn't get their dark skin from the sun.

More muted words crawl from my mouth,
falling to the ground.
Someone twitches his gun hand
and then narrows his eyes.

I hear a familiar whistled tune

and Opie walks by barefoot, 

right between us all, and saves the day.
He’s wipin’ off the fish he dropped;
with not a care in the world.