Whatever You’re Asking For

A cornsilk mane, atop wiry frame,
laconic through a Gainesville nose,
accenting gravelly fountains,
brimming wine and lipped in rose.

Cigarettes packed, cherries owing,
moons and hearts all a-glowin’,
broken-up into two jukebox sides
‘neath the dark of America snowin’.

Tracked-down treks , half-quarter decks,
memorized wrecks across states on
the simple, studied beat—applying
his simmerful, muddling heat:

“My girl, my girl, come idea with me,”
the sly knocking we needed to slow,
hear a fender tap of that cherub wing cap,
choruses now with us now in the know.