Southern Comfort

My place arrives at 6:00 am under an orange sky, the sun’s shell cracked and fried over-easy.

My place sounds like Skynyrd, so my toes must tap along.

My place has a garden hose, a sponge-bucket, and a pick-up truck.

My place has an old dog lying in the grass, and a pup dropping a ball into the sponge bucket.

My place smells of water, and soap, and wet dogs... sweet smells, all.

My place tastes like black coffee, static and bitter.

Mine is a simple, three hour therapy that cleans a truck, trains a dog (and his man), and rights the perplexing spins of an unbalanced globe.