Down the old dust-rutted track, as a child, I would
slowly mosey,
Speeding up as I passed the shack belonging to mad Old
Rosie,
Always sitting alone in long black, on her wooden
slatted porch,
Booted feet, cameo´d throat & a stare that scared
& scorched.
I´d see from afar her gun-metaled head &
steel-spectacled eyes,
That never missed a thing of this life she so
obviously despised,
Her rocking-chair creaking in the never-ending humming
heat,
Nothing would remove old Rosie from her rocking front
row seat.
Guarding the empty nothingness from her creaking,
rocking domain,
The passing tumbleweed & the flies dropping in
heated sluggish pain,
The well-worn-stone whiskey jar, always half full
& forever at her side,
To which she would regularly bend & lift- &
with puckered lips, imbibe.
Chewing tobacco, always aiming & spewing, gobs of
saliva browned,
Which when landed, sizzled & fizzled on hitting
Hades roasting ground,
When she wasn’t a-chewing, she liked her hand-made chiseled
pipe,
And anyone brave, daring or nearing would for sure get
a good swipe.
A sawn-off-shotgun always rested across Rosie´s rusty
old knee,
Whenever I passed by, cackling, she´d shoot, always
scaring me,
The shots whizzing past always missed, just hitting
the sorry dust,
The cackle I heard was the laughing of Old Rosie I
could not trust.
Old Rosie was known all around, by one & all-
& very far & wide,
Some vowed she´d existed before the turning of life´s very
first tide,
Old Rosie did not love anyone & nobody at all had
ever loved her,
No human being, no feathered bird & no creature
wearing fur.
One day Old Rosie expired & they turned her into
sad grey ashes,
There were no tears wept, nor cried, just red-eyed
whiskey splashes,
From her old-well-worn-whiskey-jar overturned by the
overjoyed wind,
Spilling the dregs of all the old lady´s deceptions,
all Old Rosie´s sins.
Old Rosie´s sad grey ashes were scattered down the old
dust-rutted track,
Gone were her boots, gone the pipe & gone the old
dusty dress of black,
On the warm wind I still hear the creaking of her
rocking chair groan & sigh,
And the malevolent cackling within the tumbleweed silently
rolling by.
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