The vines are creeping closer every minute.
Soon they will take me.
I won’t run or fight,
only sit on the porch in repose,
a reel in my heart,
Glenlivet in my belly,
a good cigar lit for fire in the night,
sweet leaf suckling to my lungs.
The cicadas sing sing sing
their last show before the smothering kudzu
breaks the night silent.
I stop rocking in grandpa’s old chair
to listen to the vine creep,
slithering to my grave.
The boards of the porch snap under pressure
and curling tendrils eye me with gluttony.
One more swallow of scotch,
a last look at the south’s own stars
and they have me.
The black of night keeps me from seeing
the green veins probe into my nostrils.
Before my brain is pierced,
I smile at the thought
of seeing Mama again,
smelling her magnolia perfume
down among the vines.
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