Tuscaloosa is
wood smoke
billowing direction;
out northeasterly
of in a
barbeque joint
houndstooth applied indiscriminately;
ruins;
our upstairs law student neighbor moaning and whining in pleasure
as her and her boyfriend with
the “Yes, yes, right there!”
the “ooohs”
it stops,
the quick footsteps to the bathroom;
intact;
the brick envelope of stale beer,
the graffiti that reads, “The Paranoids are after me”;
debris;
sweat, metal bleachers, shakers,
and fascination;
four seasons—not the regular variety: a spring, a concise Minnesota summer, a summer of oppression, and autumn;
a drive, a stadium, a dorm, a high school, a conference center—all Bryant;
a Baptist hangover;
magnolia lotus-like;
white pillars;
race and religion;
bourbon-coated eyes;
a professor explaining that if you’re going to study Aristotle, then you have to read Nichomachean Ethics—all stated in an accent New Orleanian;
two Shaggies in a 4 Runner sharing a Bob Marley joint at a stoplight and listening to
Widespread
Panic;
Roll Tide as a general affirmation;
the safety of bathtubs and closets;
pine straw;
fun as sex on Sunday morning;
vowels that extend for a good while;
home.
