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Show Go Love/156 packed pipes, roll me with the silver rims Take my eternal soul for a T-top. Bury me in a swivelled bucket seat. Pretty We go into conniptions for the Trans Am version like the one loaned to me by the mother of the girl I played guitar for in the Miss Jackrabbit Pageant. She couldn't sing a lick, and it was real embarrassing down on the basketball floor under the flood light with eyes on us from the Visitors and home side, her ripping "You Light Up My Life" to shreds while I finger picked the melody on a round-backed Ovation Man, she sang bad, but her mother let me have her Trans Am for a weekend and I drove the Jesus out of the car, really, raced it down Highway 38, a hundred and twenty, a hundred and thirty. I cruised Little Rock, got happy and somehow picked up Sweet Sweet Connie from that "American Band" song and we had fast ride after Beat The Clock happy hour at Cajuns. "Pretty?" He nods. I can smell it on him, her. The truth. He's seen. He's seen my mama. This second, he sees me see it in his eyes. The air is still, all quiet like church. A held breath, a vacuum. I say, "Tell me the truth, Daddy." The fire-headed woodpecker flies, its silver wings violent. My father looks me in the face~I see my brother in his eyes, the morning we all stood for the photograph with the dead deer head, how shell-shocked he was when Brother Dell cast the first dirt into Jimmy's grave hole and everyone sang out under the hickories. Trace is on us. "Well?" She accentuates her skin's natural blueness with powder blue |