South Carolina Morning

Her red dress & hat tease the sky’s level- headed blue. Outside a country depot, she could be a harlot or saint on Sunday morning. We know Hopper could slant light till it falls on our faces. She waits for a tall blues singer whose twelve-string is hours out of hock, for a pullman porter with a pigskin wallet bulging with greenbacks, who stepped out of Porgy at intermission. This is paradise made of pigment & tissue, where apples ripen into rage & lust. In a quick glance, beyond skincolor, she’s his muse, his wife— the same curves to her stance, the same breasts beneath summer cloth.